Loyalty Forsaken
by OxesBox
Summary: The Hunger Games, featuring 24 original characters. Teams will form, but will also inevitably break up. What will happen when a murderous Career attempting redemption is abandoned by his teammates? Will others learn to work together with strangers, having lost their partners and friends? And can anybody stop Gwen, District 12's fiercely independent tribute and merciless killer?
1. Bloodbath on the Island

**A/N: I am writing this with the story nearly finished, and the first few chapters are really jumpy and messy in comparison to the later ones. I hope some of you at least can stick it out; the early chapters are not that long. Please see my introduction to characters story to understand who these guys are, though the first chapter should give you a basic idea of how some of them think about each other and themselves. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

The slowly rising platforms engulfed the 24 tributes in darkness and silence. They were left, for 30 seconds that seemed like eternity, with their own thoughts. Some were going over their pre-planning again and again, ready to put them into action. For others, the rage and ferocity was building as they hoped for a bloodbath. But for most, it was a time for panic or prayer; their last moments alone before being exposed to both the eyes of the world and the wrath of their enemies.

Martha struggled to still her quivering as she rose into position. She held her arm in her hand, forcing it to steady. She couldn't let it end like this, on weakness. But it all went out of her head as she was hit by the outside; first a bright light and then a searing heat. After that moment of blindness she could see the others, spread around her in a circle. They seemed much more distant than she had imagined.

All eyes were fixed on a river that cut through the tributes, dividing them neatly in two. It trickled, slowly, lazily; unaware of what was about to happen around it. Perched on an island in the centre were tables of weapons, packs, maybe medical supplies? Martha couldn't tell. She was used to a huge Cornucopia, but here they'd just left things sitting. Surrounding them was a jungle, or maybe a rainforest- she'd never been taught the difference. The heat was overwhelming.

Looking at her fellow tributes, she couldn't help but shiver again. Some were looking around, likely searching for targets. As she looked at him, the tall boy from District 2 met her gaze. She quickly looked away, but could feel him continue to stare. Surely there were others, too, who'd identified her as a weak one. To the right of her was Samuel, a thin, blonde District 7 tribute. He'd been friendly enough in training, but now he stared straight ahead, his expression set. Next to Sam was Atticus, her rangy, wolflike district partner. Unfortunately, he had made little attempt to get to know her, and now he was smiling. It gave her chills. Nobody was trustworthy here.

Martha was small, young, weak. She had no plan. And the horn went off, and people sprang from their podiums, and she screamed.

Twenty-odd tributes went sprinting towards the river. She saw Atticus shove Samuel into the shallows as he waded in towards the centre and the weapons. Martha, instead, clambered from her podium and crept forward. The others had sprinted, and were already clashing. The District 10 tribute, Nail, had lunged for a table and fallen in his haste. Martha saw the brawny District 7 female bring a huge axe down upon him, and as the first cannon sounded his body fell with a splash into the river. Meanwhile, the two District 9 tributes, Gregory and Brianna, had both armed themselves and stood back-to-back as they edged into the jungle. Nobody, however reckless, dared take both of them on together.

Martha gave up on supplies. Escape was more important. But as she turned to flee, she heard a yell and saw Samuel run in her direction. He'd obtained a sword from somewhere, and now advanced, confident in his own speed over hers. As she searched around the empty ground for a weapon, a shape came racing from Samuel's left and bundled into him, sending him tumbling backwards. It was Atticus.

Samuel spat to see himself thrown down by Atticus again, but Martha's partner paid no heed to him, instead pacing towards her and- miraculously, it seemed- tossing her a weapon, a hammer.

"Time to go!" he grinned, and she had little choice but to turn her back on the scuffle and hurry after her new teammate. She had done what she had not thought possible. She had survived.

* * *

Meanwhile, chaos continued to ensue. The retreat of the District 9 and 6 tributes, along with Samuel, caused a brief lull as they all seemed to pause for breath, wary of taking on two opponents. District 7's female tribute Sigrun decided it was time to leave. She had already made her mark by killing Nail (who still lay, blood seeping from his back, at her feet). It was time to get out while the going was good, and allow others to collect weapons unchallenged. The bloodbath could continue full pelt without her, she was sure of that.

The retreat of Sigrun for the woods was greeted with grins from the Career tributes. District One's Leonidas and District Two's Joshua sprang forward first, Joshua for a sword and Leonidas for a flail that lay atop the nearest table. But he was shocked to see the fat, foolish looking Francis, District Eight's no-hoper, grab it in his podgy hands and swing it round his head triumphantly, forcing Leonidas to stumble backwards with a gasp.

"Drop it and you get a head start!" he snarled as he recovered his balance, but Francis either couldn't or wouldn't let go as he slung it around, narrowly missing the head of the Career favourite.

But Leonidas could tell that Francis was out of his depth with the weapon, and darted in quickly to seize it from him as he slid backwards from the island. As he did so he was met with a thump as another figure, clearly with the same plan, blundered into him. Instinctively Leonidas grabbed the District 12 boy by his arm and slung him into a rock next to the stream, before grabbing a large javelin and hurtling off in the direction of the fleeing Francis.

* * *

For Joshua, now armed with both sword and bow, retreat was his instinct. But instinct of this sort, he had been taught, was to be fought. He was there to fight, to kill, and not to hide like the others will. That was not how District Two Tributes operated. And so as the large shape of District Three's Simon hurried past, he tripped him and sent him sprawling next to the stream, far from the safety of the thick jungle. Joshua was conscious of how intimidating he must look, looming large with a sword pointing at his unarmed, helpless foe. How proud they must be of him.

"Come on, Josh. Not now, not yet," said Simon, his hands outstretched as he lay on the ground.

He had expected the incoherent babbling of a panicking goner. He had been taught to expect that. But Simon was clever, kind and composed; they'd got on very well in training. He could see, perhaps, that Joshua wasn't a murderer.

Joshua closed his eyes and thrust.

* * *

The second cannon rocked the remaining tributes, and Grace turned from her spot on the island to see Joshua slowly pull his sword from his victim's chest. Simon had been very good to her, but he was already gone at the hands of the one she should have been able to rely on most. Her District partner could not be trusted, she decided. The worst tributes, hulking Leonidas and the terrifying Sidney and Dana, were nowhere to be seen. The only others still visible were an aggressive looking Gwen, Emily from District 8, trying her best to hide, and Sadie from 5, who, as she watched, pulled a scythe from beneath a pile of weapons and headed off for the trees. The harsh warning glance Sadie gave her, along with the swords Gwen was carefully selecting, helped Grace understand that there was no safety here.

She made for the thickest part of the trees. As she went she was startled at the body of Geraint, lying next to a rock, with his head bleeding heavily. Only two cannons had sounded, so he was still alive. Career though she was, Grace had no intention of increasing that number unnecessarily, and hurried on towards safety. The thick jungle engulfed her as she entered, cancelling out the yells of those still fighting. The chattering birds filled her ears with sounds that was, if not beautiful, at least peaceful. She stilled her quivering hand and lowered her spear. The bloodbath was, for her, over.

That was when she felt cold metal at the back of her neck, and a low snigger that said she'd been outwitted, and so quickly too. She swung her axe backwards only to have it wrenched from her by a skinny hand of surprising strength. And she knew who it was, and as she did she gave up all hope.

"Please", said Grace. "Do it quickly"

Dana laughed again. "If you insist".

* * *

Gwen had seized a sword in each hand as soon as the island had cleared, in order to take it for her own. She knew how these things worked, they were all about appearances, and looking strong, and with a high training score and apparent victory at the bloodbath, nobody could look stronger than she did. The icing on the cake, unfortunately, would be the killing of an opponent. The cannon she had just heard had taken the number to three, but that was still not nearly as many as you might expect in the early stages of the games. There was no time for emotion here. She scanned the clearing around the river for an easy opponent.

* * *

Harriet crouched next to a rock with her District partner, watching Gwen looking in every direction but where they were. Gwen hadn't struck her as sadistic previously, but in the games everything changed, and she was clearly up for a fight. Harriet and Bracken were both unarmed, having not plucked up the courage to charge or sneak onto the island while she was present. In the same situation as them was District 8's Emily, who hid on the island itself, not ten feet from where Gwen stood. As Harriet watched, Gwen pointed her sword at the trembling table Emily was using as a rudimentary shield, and began to casually pace up to where she hid. Harriet turned to point out to Bracken to run for it, only to find herself alone.

Her first thought was that he had run for it. But turning to look towards the trees yielded no sign of him, and it was as she looked back at the island that she saw him, stalking the armed and dangerous Gwen. He put his finger to his lips, and she realised his real target.

Miraculously untouched by the carnage was one table, containing three crossbows and gleaming silvery bolts. Bracken's weapon of choice. And Gwen, master of this island, was distracted. The defensive tactics of Emily were proving surprisingly effective, a table being much harder to get round than a shield, and it was frustrating her illustrious opponent.

Bracken grabbed at a crossbow and beckoned at Harriet, but she was already approaching at a sprint. Now Gwen heard and recognised the threat behind her, and having splintered Emily's table and left her groaning beneath it, she turned to face two bows levelled at her, too far away to charge with her sword and survive. She sighed, the scowl not leaving her face.

"You wouldn't kill me now. You're not wicked people. I mean you no harm, District 11", she said.

"Oh, really," retorted Bracken. "Just like you mean no harm to Emily now?"

"This is for _my_ safety. I kill her now, I am left alone later. The others will know I mean business."

And with that, Gwen turned and thrust her sword deep into the wreckage of the table and the tribute, to the sound of a cannon. Her defiant stare at Bracken and Harriet was met by a crossbow bolt that whistled past, stinging her right ear, and then by another that thudded to the ground several feet in front of her. Harriet was not a crossbow expert, and fumbled with her next bolt, by the time it was ready, the escaping Gwen was out of range, with Bracken's second bolt ramming into the ground just as she plunged into the jungle.

Harriet looked at the empty starting area, and then at her teammate. He smiled.

"First round to us. Now let's teach you how to use one of these things."

They grabbed all the supplies they could carry, along with a sword and spear to use along with their bows. Then they plunged into the forest, leaving the bloodbath behind them.


	2. Carolina the Killer

**A/N: OK, so this chapter should be less chaotic than the previous one, as I'm just focusing on one viewpoint, that of Carolina (District 4). It is also quite a bit shorter, but I think quite a bit better too.**

* * *

Carolina was in her element. She lay flat on her belly on the crook of a great tree, stroking the steel blade of a cutlass. It was a long, curved, wicked-looking weapon, perhaps slightly unwieldy, but all the more vicious-looking for it. It was also the only thing that she'd had time to grab as she'd headed away from the starting area.

Nobody had seen her, she was confident of that. Carolina had planned well: to be gone as quickly as possible, and hopefully to be immediately forgotten by the more dangerous opponents that would target her. She had a high enough training score to be a worry to them, but low enough so that they would feel confident if beating her in a fight. So she got out of the chaos of the start quickly and efficiently, and by the time she was remembered she could be far away.

But instead she sat in a tree, a tree little more than 10 feet away from the edge of the starting area, eyes fixed on the darkening island. There were expert trackers out there, she knew, but if they pursued her, they would find the trail go cold very quickly. Carolina was well hidden. Anyone looking up would see nothing more than a flash of red hair, high up in the canopy. It was uncomfortable up here, the twigs digging into her legs and stomach and the heat causing extensive sweating. But she was surely safer than any other tribute.

In the clearing she could make three bodies, those of Nail, Simon, and Emily, along with the feebly stirring Geraint. As she watched, he got up and stumbled away, forgetting to pick up any weapons or supplies. He wouldn't last long, she thought smugly. No need to finish him off.

No, she had bigger fish to fry. Carolina pushed down the instinct urging her to run to the helpless tribute and gut him. Ferocity; it was what she had been practicing. Hit them enough times and they'll stay down, whether they like it or not. She shook her head to clear it. Geraint was out of her site now, heading out of the clearing away from her. She settled down to wait. Not everyone had picked up supplies. Some would need to come back to this spot, unarmed and vulnerable. And she would be waiting.

Because to kill in site of others made a statement. But you couldn't kill everyone, or they would gang up on you. Mark you out as a contender. If she wanted to be the unexpected victor she had to use cunning and subtlety. If nobody knew what she was doing, how could they know she was a threat?

A small, blue bird with bright eyes alighted next to her and began to sing. She paused to shoo it away. No sounds could be allowed to give her away. There would surely be others, if not here then elsewhere, watching and waiting for one slip-up.

As she thought it, the blissful silence was shattered by a crash. The half-light of dusk illuminated a stocky figure stumping out of the trees, not even trying to be stealthy. The shape scrambled towards the island in a hurry, looking straight ahead. But his mane of dark hair made his identity clear. It was Carolina's District partner, Sidney.

She felt the rage rise in herself, and this time did nothing to dispel it. She needed to kill, to show herself that she could do it, and there was nobody better than her foolish, pointlessly brutal District partner to practice on. Carolina wrenched herself backwards towards the trunk of the tree, twigs cutting through her legs as she slid and tumbled down to the floor. Ignoring the pain of the fall, she all but sprinted at her unsuspecting victim.

But of course, he was no longer unsuspecting. As she looked up at him, Sidney's eyes were fixed upon her own. He seized a spear from the wreckage around the supplies, hefted it in two hands and began to run himself.

Sidney tumbled down the slope to slam into Carolina with a jolt, sending her backwards with the shaft of his spear held out defensively. He cackled loudly and swung the weapon round in an arc, which was ducked easily by Carolina. She lashed out with her own sword, connecting with his wrist and causing the first spurt of blood.

"Down, Dog!" she taunted, as Sidney stopped laughing to splutter and back off. A second swing splintered his spear as he held it in front of himself, rendering it useless. Sidney dropped it, thoughtlessly holding out an arm to protect himself. Her third swing cut deep into it, and the stout boy fell backwards, clutching his hand with a wail.

Carolina wasted no time in cutting him up. The cutlass was strong and it took only a few more swings to detach the arm almost completely. She raised it up again, soaked in blood and gore. She felt like kissing the steel of it; it had done its work well.

She was brought out of her reverie by laughter. Soft laughter, coming from the ground. Sidney's eyes were wide open, his arm was as good as gone, and he surely didn't have long for this world. But he smiled and laughed as he lay on the grass. It was unnerving, thought Carolina, inhuman. She pointed her sword at him.

"Shut your mouth while I shut it for you, you monster!" she spat. Suddenly this felt much less satisfying. How was he lying there, mocking her triumph? And then, for the first time, he spoke.

"If I…am the monster" breathed Sidney. "Then what are you?" Carolina drew back as he continued to cackle at her, a loud, explosive sort of laugh that filled the air, drowning out the sounds of the forest and of the birds. Her mind was clearer now. The red mist was rising. She needed to get away. Away from this mad savage with the rolling eyes, and the brutality of this clearing. Sidney was on his last legs. She just wanted to be gone. She sheathed her cutlass and made for the trees.

But in her hurry, Carolina forgot her rules, her plans. To stay in the trees, to kill without leaving witnesses. As the sun went down, she left a clear track for others to follow.


	3. Aurelia Alone, Leonidas Hunting

**A/N: This chapter completes the introduction by covering what is happening to the three tributes I have not mentioned. It's definitely my favourite of the chapters so far.**

* * *

In the shadows of dusk, beneath a great-tree root, there was darkness. You would have to go very close to see the hidden signs of life. The signs of a small girl hunched over there, trying to control her breathing.

This was how Aurelia would survive. She was the smallest of all the tributes, which gave her a crucial advantage. That was certainly the case with what happened at the start. She had been able to dive in and grab supplies before anyone else. A flask of water and a belt containing two short swords. She would have preferred a bow, but they would do for now. They were the perfect size for her.

Aurelia shuddered, remembering the scene as she had taken them. As she had turned to run she had had to dodge past the tumbling form of Nail, a poor boy but one of the more likeable tributes she had met. A sickening crunch of bones greeted her ears as Sigrun crushed his spine with her axe. It had happened right in front of Aurelia's face. Fortunately she had made it to the jungle unharmed and unobserved, where she had promptly thrown up. She had been prepared, but to witness death that close…nothing can ready you for that.

Now she huddled in a safe place. Aurelia knew she hadn't been followed- she'd doubled back on herself and hidden for long enough to know she was nobody's target. So whose were the unmistakeable footsteps coming closer and closer to her hiding spot?

Concerned, she shoved herself back into the ground behind her, but as she did so she relinquished pressure on the root over her head, causing a great tide of dirt and earth to fall from above. Aurelia couldn't help but cough and splutter as her eyes and mouth were obscured. They finally cleared to show a slight figure standing not far from her.

"I know you're there," said a female voice. Aurelia drew a sword from her belt, continuing to crouch in case her opponent was bluffing. But as she wiped the last scraps of mud from her eyes she could see the female District 1 tribute, Julia. Her eyes looked directly into hers.

Aurelia slowly stepped all the way out of her hiding-hole, holding the sword out in front of her. But as she looked closer she realised her opponent was not the obvious threat she had expected. Julia was not in a good way. She was unarmed, one sleeve was ripped and she limped slightly as she backed away from Aurelia.

"What happened to you?" said Aurelia.

"Nothing," Julia shrugged. "Just rushed away from the starting area a bit too quickly. Tripped and fell in some sort of bush. Don't worry, I'm alone. Nobody came after me."

Aurelia lowered her sword, but did not sheath it yet. There was usually no reason to trust what a Career said, considering how often they teamed up. But Julia was taking a huge risk here, coming this close to her unarmed. So it was possible this wasn't a trap.

"I'm here to ask for a partnership," continued Julia, taking Aurelia by surprise. "I can bring you so much; I've been training forever for this. I know how to survive, I know how to fight, and I can probably persuade Leonidas and Joshua to leave you alone if they find you."

Aurelia hesitated. Julia was babbling a bit. She seemed pretty nervous of tiny little Aurelia, which brought her some satisfaction. If she was truly alone, as was becoming more and more likely, this was the only logical step for Julia. Unarmed, seemingly lost and injured, there was little she could achieve alone.

"Besides," Julia added. "Otherwise you will have to kill me."

She was a smart girl too, thought Aurelia. As smart as Aurelia herself, maybe.

"Okay. I don't like it, but here," she said, holding out her flask of water. "It looks like you need it."

Julia took a sip, and smiled. "Thank you, I mean really, thanks. It takes a lot of heart to trust anyone in these Games."

Aurelia did not smile back. She couldn't let herself get too friendly. "Well. Two are better than one."

"Could I perhaps…have one of the swords, too?" asked Julia.

Aurelia looked at her. Julia was still smiling. "Not yet. We'll see. Later."

Julia was right. It was hard to trust in this situation, knowing you had to betray later. Perhaps, thought Aurelia, it was wise to keep some back. For now.

* * *

Leonidas was frustrated. He'd left the starting area at speed to pursue the fat boy, Francis, surely an easy target. But as he did so he'd run straight into some predictably tangled vines and his struggle to free himself cost him time. It didn't help that, in his haste, he'd only taken a single javelin.

Fortunately, the trail Francis had left was clear. The big lad had forced himself through the most overgrown part of the rainforest, and following a trail of crushed plant life was easy for someone like Leonidas. His size and strength were not his only advantages; he was also very familiar with the outdoors and a tireless walker. Yes, he could win this. He _would _win this. Only a fool would dare take someone like him on, especially after he made an example of Francis.

Leonidas cursed as the trail led to a clearing. It would be a lot harder to establish Francis' direction now, especially as it was getting very dark. And he had been certain he was getting close too. Surely his stout quarry couldn't have got much further?

Just as he began to consider turning back to try and find a new target, he caught site of a trail of crushed shrubbery, clearly leading off to the right of the clearing and up a steep hill. Leonidas smiled grimly, shaking his head at Francis' lack of subtlety. The boy hadn't even _considered _that somebody could follow his trail! It wouldn't be far now.

He hauled himself up the slope, using his single javelin as a crutch. Even he was beginning to tire from the distance he had travelled, and it was getting harder and harder to see where he was going. Francis was much fitter than he had appeared. He began to think in his rage what he would do to him when he caught up. Well…kill him, certainly. He wasn't really one for unnecessary cruelty, but his opponent definitely needed to die, and he might make it a little more painful than usual, just to let out his frustration.

Musing on this, he failed to recognise the cavernous drop awaiting him as he crested the slope. Until it was too late, and the javelin was wrenched from under him, and he began to scrabble for purchase on the rocks. Leonidas turned and yelled, gripping the ground as tightly as he could with both arms and quickly hauling himself up onto his chest. His legs dangled over the edge.

Leonidas knew a trap when he saw one. His attempts to pull himself to safety where cut short by his own spear, tapped lightly but ominously against his chest. He raised his head up to see an unfamiliar face swim out of the darkness. It was broad and blond, with a small smirk on its face. It was certainly not Francis. Nor was it one of the Careers.

"Who are you?" gasped Leonidas. "And how did you do this?"

"Oh, it was quite easy: I just watched the trail you were following, hurried on ahead and continued it to here. You didn't consider that somebody might have been following you, did you?" came the response.

Leonidas looked the stocky figure over. At a second glance, this boy was muscular enough, and clearly fit despite his rather proper, upper-class way of talking.

"Do you not recognise me? That's very poor form. My name is Matthew. I'm from District 5. And I'm afraid you should have taken some of your competitors a bit more seriously, old chap."

Leonidas groaned with effort. Below him was a murky swamp, it appeared, but it was so far down he could barely make it out. He knew he was dead, but he wouldn't let go for anything.

"Make it quick, Matthew. Make it honourable."

Matthew said nothing further, but stepped forward, lifted his boot and rammed it into Leonidas' face. The strongest of the tributes raised his hands to his face instinctively. He saw stars, and then he saw nothing.

* * *

The final cannon of the day went off. Not long afterwards the tributes looked towards the heavens at the faces of the deceased; far fewer than was common after day one. Dana smirked to see her hated District partner, Nail. Many were sad to see Simon, Grace and Emily, who had been well liked, had fallen on the first day. Even Joshua, who had murdered the first, had to choke back tears when he saw the face of the second. He and Grace had been very close.

And there was universal shock when the face of Leonidas, the danger man, appeared. But this didn't decrease the tributes' fear. If he had fallen, then the one who had killed him was still at large. And dangerous.


	4. Ambush at Dawn

**A/N: Second successive chapter about Aurelia and Julia. Sorry.**

* * *

A whirring sound startled Aurelia awake. She scrambled to her feet, still bleary-eyed, reaching for her sword-belt. Thankfully, she could feel both of her weapons still in place, and sighed with relief. She had not intended to sleep that night, having been determined to remain beneath her tree-root, watching her new comrade. But it seemed that, during the night, she had been left untouched.

For a second Aurelia thought that Julia had gone. There was no sign of her in the surrounding area. But then she spotted her, her chest rising and falling with her breaths. She lay on the soft earth, in the same spot as she had originally slept last night, apparently unmoved during the night. Her expression gave her a peaceful look that belied her poor physical state. But Julia was a career, remembered Aurelia. She could make it through a lot more than this.

The sound that had awakened her suddenly came again. Aurelia turned to see a small blue bird on a low branch. It cocked its head, staring at her with eyes like jewels. Then with another twitter it fluttered off into the canopy.

Aurelia released she had been frozen to the spot. She breathed out. _Just a bird. There are bigger things to worry about. _Like food and water, for example. The single flask she had carried was quickly going to be exhausted in the temperatures of the day, which were beginning to rise again as the sun rose in the sky. In the chaos of yesterday and the comparative coolness of the night she had forgotten just how hot it could get in this sort of environment. Aurelia, who prided herself on her intelligence and ability to plan, knew that she needed to do better.

Well, they needed to find supplies as quickly as possible, and that meant moving from this place. It was hardly a safe haven anyway, considering how easily she had been found yesterday. At least Julia hadn't proved to be a threat.

She kneeled down to wake her. It was strange, this 'teammate' thing. She had never considered it might be a factor for her, considering she wasn't a career. She had never even talked about it with her District partner, Simon, though they had got on rather well. It had always been her assumption that she would find a hiding spot and try and win through not being found. Never would she have imagined herself here, with a dangerous career by her side.

Maybe it would have been easier if Julia _had _attacked her. She knew what to do in that situation. As it was, she was finding herself in the confused position of taking on more responsibility than just herself. And at the same time, trying to work out if Julia's intentions were as innocent as she claimed.

Nevertheless, now they were here, Aurelia could definitely do with the assistance. She shook Julia's shoulder gently (it wouldn't do for her to make too much noise). The brown eyes slowly fluttered awake, and with barely a sound she rose onto her elbows.

And then Julia stopped and stared. And shouted.

"Aurelia, look out!"

It was clear something was wrong. Aurelia turned around and drew her swords, to see a tall girl running full pelt at them, carrying another sword and a shield. Brianna, the girl from District 9, was not here to talk.

"And behind!"

Julia's second cry again caused Aurelia to turn, seeing a lanky boy drop down from a branch and cast a spear. As it went hurtling towards Aurelia she realised too late that she carried nothing to deflect it. She screwed her eyes shut.

THWAK!

That was the sound that rang out in front of her helpless ears. She opened her eyes, hardly believing. Julia was hefting a great log, with a surprising strength for someone with such a small frame. That was what had been used to parry away the deadly weapon.

Aurelia moved back to back with her partner. Aurelia herself faced Brianna, while Julia kept her eye on Brianna's District partner, Gregory, who was readying his second and final spear, watching for an opening or a chink in the pair's armour.

Brianna leaped forward, swinging her heavy blade in a great arc. The more lightly armed Aurelia ducked beneath it and darted at her opponent with her own sword. But Brianna was sensible. She kept herself at more than an arm's length from her short opponent, her rectangular shield offering her additional protection.

A gasp from behind her almost caused Aurelia to turn around, but this became impossible as a weight hit her behind the knees. She stumbled forward towards her opponent, but Brianna wasn't ready for it. Aurelia found herself close to the ground, but looking upwards at the shield. Without thinking, she lunged upwards, finding a gap beneath the shield to cut into flesh.

Immediately Brianna responded by stepping backwards with a yelp of pain and shoving her shield down. Aurelia scrambled back onto her feet. An opening had appeared. She could escape. She turned and ran away from the conflict.

But a glance back at Julia made her pause. The log had been dropped; it was impossible to see where it had gone. The weight on Aurelia's legs had been her ally's body, as the second spear had found its mark in her thigh. It was oozing blood. Gregory was hefting his first spear again, and was closing in for the kill.

With a gasp Julia pulled the weapon from her own leg. Brandishing it, she hauled herself to her feet, and charged Gregory with a yell. Her spear struck his with an almighty crunch. He tried to thrust it towards her, but the Career deftly knocked it down, before stabbing at him herself. Julia was showing what all her training had led to. The battle had changed in a moment.

But as her weapon reached up towards his throat, a sword came out of nowhere, cleaving Julia's javelin neatly down the middle with tremendous force. Brianna had only received a small wound. She was going to defend her comrade, and now her enemy was both wounded and unarmed. The two of them closed in. Julia had barely a leg to stand on.

"Sword!"

Julia was calling to her, Aurelia realised. Her head was spinning. She hadn't moved as the fighting swayed one way and then the other. She was feeling a strange disconnection from the battle, not being used to this sort of thing. Of course, none of them were…

"SWORD!"

Aurelia looked down at the two swords clutched in her hands. She clung so tightly they were digging into her skin. Then she looked behind her, into the depths of the rainforest. She could be safe. She would be alone, yes, but surely it would be easier just to provide for her? Brianna and Gregory were dangerous, and who knew if there were any more enemies that would hear this shouting? It would be best to get away from here. She didn't owe anyone anything. Least of all a…a career that she didn't know she could trust.

"PLEASE!"

But Aurelia was gone.

She ran, and ran, and didn't stop. She wasn't afraid, no; she'd stand and fight if she needed to. But it was important to be pragmatic. Aurelia had done the right thing. The sensible thing. After all, Julia had been willing to give her life for her. Otherwise she wouldn't have leaped in front of that spear.

Aurelia was thinking clearer now. After all, Simon was long gone, may he rest in peace. She was the only remaining tribute from District 3. This wasn't selfishness. She was doing this for her family, her friends, and her community. Julia's death was a necessary evil.

But wait a second. The cannon hadn't fired. She was alive. Maybe she'd fought back. She was still defending herself! Aurelia turned around to run back to her comrade…

BOOM!

It was the cannon. Aurelia stopped in her tracks, and slowly slid down to the ground. Swords clattered to the floor, forgotten. Her small figure collapsed into a tiny ball, a ball of regret and self-hate. She had saved her own life, but in the process had forsaken honour, nobility and most importantly her friend, Julia.


	5. The Stream

The first dawn of the games had come and gone, and Sadie was still alive. It was surreal, finally being here. She'd prepared herself for so long, physically yes, but more importantly mentally. She had been so ready, so prepared, to die. To go down fighting, and bring honour to her family. But now here she was, not a scratch on her.

It had been easy, really. She had just had to wait for a brief lull in proceedings, with the deaths of Nail to Sigrun and Simon to Joshua, before darting in, grabbing the scythe (she thanked the gods that they'd placed one for her) and getting out of there. The only ones who'd seen her, as far as she could tell, had been Grace and Emily, both of whom were dead. Sadie couldn't bring herself to grieve for any of the deceased. They'd all be joining them soon enough. She'd heard another cannon this morning. She wouldn't know who it was for until that night.

But Sadie's success in escaping from the starting area unseen and unhurt had all been for nothing. Because late yesterday evening, just as she'd been making herself at home beneath the fronds of a great tree, he had come.

Samuel came staggering out of the undergrowth, unarmed and bleeding from his shoulder. She had not seen what had happened to him at the onslaught. It was possible he was bluffing. There could be an armed and dangerous partner waiting in the shadows for her to lower her guard.

But as he explained to her how he had been double-teamed by Atticus and Martha, she began to believe that he was truly helpless. His most likely teammate, Sigrun from his District, had been one of the first to leave the starting area and she had done so alone. And Sadie just couldn't stop herself. She felt obligated to do as she had done back at home. Defend those who could not defend themselves. So she had allowed him to stay.

Samuel still slept as the day marched on. There was no need to wake him. She had heard footsteps passing nearby multiple times that morning, but it was easy to stay silent in her hiding place. Her ally was a quiet sleeper. As she sat, she stroked the wood of the scythe she had grabbed. It was very close in weight and sharpness to the one she had defended her household with. That is, too heavy and very blunt. But it would do, for now. After all, she'd never learnt how to use a different weapon.

When he'd told Sadie his story the night before, Samuel had claimed that a sword had been knocked from his hands back at the starting island. So he was unarmed, and that meant he could not contribute to the defence of their 'team'. She didn't have the skill to make anything out of all the wood lying around. So, Sadie reasoned, they needed to find him something.

And to find a weapon, they had two choices. They could return to the starting area, which would still be very dangerous and, as far as she knew, might now have been cleared of supplies. Or they could find another tribute and steal from them.

And she knew exactly where to find somebody.

* * *

Samuel had yawned loudly and stretched his arms when Sadie had 'awakened' him. He had to admit he was surprised. He didn't see her as a cold-blooded murderer, but she could easily have left him while he slept. That was why he had spent the whole night with his eyes kept narrowly open, keeping an eye on her. But she had done nothing whatsoever. Every indication she had given was that she was a simple, honourable character. Someone who did as she said. Such people were easy to manage.

So far he'd only lied to her once, and mostly by omission. He had claimed that Atticus and Martha, the two District 6 tributes, had attacked him together, while he only tried to escape. In truth he had been the aggressor. Martha was the most vulnerable of all the tributes, he had judged. Besides, it would have been good for her not to suffer too much.

But he'd been thwarted by that savage bastard Atticus, and had lost his weapon. Samuel had seemingly misjudged the boy: he had apparently taken on Martha and had kept her alive to the end of the first day at least. That was better than he'd expected for the small girl. Perhaps Atticus was more compassionate than he appeared.

Samuel, in contrast, had no use for compassion. He wouldn't kill someone out of spite, or anger, or for any other pointless reason. When he'd lived at home he was thought of as quiet and intelligent. He had hunted animals but was always merciful to them, and never let them suffer. But Samuel's own livelihood was more important than theirs.

So it was in these Games. He always saw, in past years, people beating their opponents, taking their supplies. But they would then spare their lives. Sometimes this just caused unnecessary suffering for the victim. A death by hunger or thirst rather than a quick sword thrust. But equally often this would prove costly for the merciful victor.

Samuel was able to turn off his feelings for others very easily. It was him or them, and he didn't care how many he had to murder himself.

Not that Sadie would ever know any of this. She paced in front of him now, carefully pushing vines out of her way with her scythe. She was a protector, it seemed, and as long as he continued to show her that he needed protecting he could wrap her around his little finger.

She was practical and cunning though, in ways that he wasn't. He knew how minds worked, but she knew what people would _need._ So they were searching for water, perhaps a river or a watering-hole. That was where the others would stop, and so it was the perfect spot to ambush someone and take their arms.

As his partner strode forward through the trees, Samuel made sure to look down at his own feet, as if in pain. He had picked up a slight limp from when Atticus had tackled him, but made sure to exaggerate it to add to the impression of 'helpless victim' he was trying to give off. But his constant downward stare resulted in him walking almost straight into Sadie's back.

He peered over her shoulder. There was a short, but steep drop by their feet, and then a clearing in the trees and heaps of small stones. And there, shining in the sunlight, was what they'd been searching for. A stream, tinkling down in a cheerful way from a tiny hole in some rocks, before it tumbled down a high ledge about 100 metres away. Samuel noticed that the rocks at the top were keeping back a much wider and stronger underground river. Could be useful if he needed more water later on. Sadie and Samuel scrambled down hurriedly, the two of them forgetting their scheming in their thirst. Samuel had snagged a bottle from the island at the start of the Games, and he gladly filled it. The purity of it was astonishing.

But it was not long before they remembered why they were here. It was easy to forget yourself when faced with such water. It was so clean to drink that it seemed almost artificial. Which it probably was, Samuel admitted to himself. The world they were trying to survive in was not as natural as it appeared.

"We should have been more careful." Sadie criticised. "If we can plan an ambush here then so can the rest of them. And we have only one weapon between us."

"Yes, but we thought of it first. And we'll have another one before long."

They settled for waiting for opponents on the opposite side of the area from the way they had come. After all, they had heard a good number of footsteps during the morning around the place they had slept.

They crouched in complete silence. It came easily to Samuel. He preferred his own thoughts to those of others. He began to plan what would happen if they were spotted by a stronger force. Of course, he'd have to take Sadie's scythe. And probably kill her with it too; she would only get in the way if she wanted it back. Even with a scythe, not his ideal weapon, he could probably fight off most opponents well enough to give him a chance to escape. Of course, it was entirely possible that Sadie would fight them off and tell him to run. It seemed like the sort of heroic thing she would do. That would only make things easier for him.

Lost in his own thoughts, Samuel was jolted back to reality by a nudge from Sadie. A sound was approaching. But not just any sound, not the whirring of the birds or the babbling of the brook, but _footsteps. _

The footsteps were very loud, and accompanied by a heavy panting. A figure burst into view from the same path they had taken. A fat, floppy sort of boy, sweating extensively in the heat. It was Francis, the wealthy factory-owners son. But most importantly, he was dragging a flail in his wake.

Francis almost fell on his face as he rushed down the rocky slope towards the water. Samuel could hardly believe how easy this would be. The fool needed to be put out of his misery anyway. But Sadie shook her head as he looked to her for approval.

"Trap," she whispered at him.

However, Francis looked hardly prepared to trap anyone. He was sprawled in the stream itself, almost flat on his considerable belly, taking grateful swigs from the water. The flail lay a few feet away, forgotten. After about five minutes, during which he said nothing beyond groans and barely moved, Sadie capitulated to Samuel's ever more urgent glances. Heaving herself out of her hiding place, she gently jogged towards their quarry, followed by her partner. Francis stared dully up as they approached, but didn't move. There was nothing he could have done, anyway.

Sadie raised her scythe towards him, but stopped well short of his throat. Her expression was one of intense regret.

"I am so, so sorry. But I need your weapon," she said solemnly.

"Take it. But d-don't kill me. I want to live. Leave me here. I can drink, here." Francis stammered. His face was soaked. Whether with tears, sweat or spring-water, Samuel couldn't tell. He stepped in front of his partner.

"OK. We'll leave you here," said Samuel, and he brought a small, round stone down with a _clump_ onto Francis' skull. Francis folded up in the stream with a wheeze.

"Was that really necessary?" asked Sadie sternly.

"Just in case. He's not dead, anyway." Samuel thought Sadie might disapprove of that, and he needed her approval. For now.

She crouched down, turning him onto his back and feeling his head.

"All right. He's not badly hurt, and he'll be awake soon with this water flowing around him. And if his mouth is facing upwards he won't drown either. Well done."

Samuel smiled at that. Francis wasn't long for this world, whatever happened. But as he crouched down to pick up his new flail, he had a thought. _Perhaps there's a way to accelerate that process. _

"Come on," said Sadie. "Let's get out of here before _we _get ambushed."

"Whatever you say."

They clambered up out of the rocky area. But as Samuel continued to limp, using the handle of his flail as a short staff, he dislodged a stone. A stone that, once loosened, severely weakened the holding ability of the rocks to hold back the underground river. Soon, it would break loose. And when it did, the stream would become a river, and the spot where it trickled over the edge, a waterfall. A surge that would catch any unconscious tributes in its path.

Samuel smirked. He was not a murderer. But it was him or them.


	6. The Hunter and the Loner

Chapter 6: The Hunter and the Loner

Carolina hadn't slept. She had tried to, having found a useful nook between some tightly spaced trees. But as she lay there, every noise of the night made her heart rise in her chest.

It wasn't like her to be this panicky. In the end she'd got up and walked onwards; always in the same direction. It was easier to just go in a straight line. Maybe she'd get an idea of the arena's size if she made it to the edge of it. At least, that was her (gradually becoming shakier) line of thinking.

Carolina, in short, was scared. An emotion she was not used to. Back in her District she had ruled the roost. People either hated her or were in awe of her, and there were few who dared to stand up to her. Or even to mock her. Back then, of course, she hadn't known Sidney.

He was still on her mind. The dreadful giggle of her defeated opponent weighed heavily on her. He was a bloodthirsty, mindless barbarian, but she had to admit, it was not he who had savaged an enemy's arm. It had been her, Carolina. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that it had been necessary…she still felt terribly confused about it all. Sometimes she thought of it as a brief loss of control; a build-up of emotion after a long, painful day.

Sometimes she thought she had lost her mind. Perhaps she hadn't regained it.

Lost in her thoughts, Carolina still managed to keep her pace constant. She tried her best to focus on walking. _One step at a time. Find the edge and you cannot be flanked. _She was still a fighter, after all. But her plans were all-but forgotten. She hadn't climbed a tree once. She'd just kept walking.

It was nearly noon when she heard the second cannon of the day. She hoped one of the two had been Sidney. It was likely. After all, he'd been badly wounded by her yesterday. But somehow she thought not. He'd survived the rest of day 1, he'd probably made it. His arm hadn't though!

Yesterday she'd have probably laughed to herself at that one. But today she just felt disturbed at her own sense of humour. She walked on.

Finally, as the heat of the day was making her walking almost unbearable, Carolina spotted a cliff-face. Finally, the edge? She wished she had the energy to speed up.

To the old Carolina, this sort of exhaustion might have been a warning sign. She might have stopped walking, had some food or water. Maybe even rested for a while. But right now, she only thought about her self-appointed mission to reach the edge. And she only thought about that to stop herself thinking about Sidney.

He terrified her more than any other being. He represented not only his own threat, but Carolina's own deadly form of insanity.

She reached the rock wall. Was it the edge? She couldn't tell. Perhaps a simple look up would have helped her, but she was not in a logical frame of mind. On touching it, her hand conclusively failed to go up in flames, so she reckoned she was safe. Perhaps she should keep going forward? Yes, she should. That worked. Nothing could go wrong. Carolina was a good climber. She could get to the top, and then, maybe, see the whole arena!

Carolina made it less than ten feet up before it began to rain. And not just rain. The sky, which she had failed to check during her walk, had not just opened. It had shattered. The rock face was not hard to scale, there being many was footholds, and it wasn't particularly sheer at the bottom. So she unflinchingly continued to climb. This was her greatest test yet, but she had her motivation. She'd been walking all day to reach the arena edge, and now she felt like she could touch it. There was no way she could fail.

Her hand slipped on the drenched surface. It was all that was needed for her body to give in. She had pushed it to the limit by marching all morning and most of the previous night without rest. Now it crumbled, her feet slipping backwards and her arms quivering as they clung desperately on.

Carolina yelped, and tumbled.

Her landing was heavy. Her legs twisted below her. Flat on her back she lay, soundless in her exhaustion, save for rapid, frenzied breaths. She had been too far up to escape without breaking her bones. But not high enough for death to come swiftly and naturally. For Carolina, there would be an arduous wait.

Except there were footsteps approaching. Not running steps, nor a stealthy approach, but casual, as if the individual arriving knew she had nowhere to run. She pulled her head upwards with a gritting of her teeth, just so she could see the identity of the one who would kill her.

His hair had lost its volume, the rain having plastered it to his head. His body was uneven, one arm ending in crudely bandaged stump not far below the shoulder. But as he laughed at her downfall, he was unmistakeable all the same.

"You should have known I'd find you," Sidney crowed. "After all, it was you who called me a dog."

Carolina tried to reach for her sword, but she couldn't feel her right arm. Doing the same with her left revealed that it was gone from her hip. Who knew how long it had been missing. Sidney continued to stalk up to her helpless body. He bent down, a spear in his remaining hand, and rammed his dripping face up close to hers.

"You might have guessed I'd hunt you down."

She would have spat at him if she had the strength. But Sidney didn't frighten her any more. He was just a spiteful boy. And after all, he couldn't harm her now. There was nothing left of her to hurt.

Sidney had paused for a reaction to his words. On receiving none, he frowned and backed away. His composure was regained quickly, though. Sidney raised the spear, and with a final cackle plunged it home. A cannon fired as the body in front of him shuddered, before relaxing for the final time. Sidney continued to laugh, laughing through the drenching rain and the pain of his arm. Carolina had been outwitted, and oh, did it feel sweet.

* * *

Matthew crouched next to the waterfall as it plunged downwards into the swamplands. It had been a rather awful shock to see it abruptly turn from a trickle into a surge; and right in front of his eyes, too! However, it had been even more of a shock seeing the heavy object that it dragged down with it.

At first he had presumed it to be a rock, but as he stepped closer it became recognisable as a person. In fact, it had turned out to be the fat tribute, Francis, whose sopping body lay in a spongy heap at the spot where the rush of water struck the marshes. Matthew picked his way towards Francis' form, but he knew already that it would not be living. The cannon that had coincided with the rush of water proved that.

Indeed, there were no signs of life on the corpse. Matthew was strong and sturdy; he was easily able to drag it from the water onto a nearby boulder. He proceeded to comb Francis for supplies. The rainstorm was fortunately beginning to clear, making his job easier. It was vaguely disgusting to go through a body in this way, but at least it wasn't rotting yet. Morally at least, Matthew could find no issue with searching Francis. After all, he wasn't a person any more.

"Frightful bad form," muttered Matthew as he failed to find anything on the corpse.

He had always had a tendency to talk to himself and now, with a determination to go through the games alone, it would only be happening more. After all, he considered himself to be the most civilised conversationalist here.

He had spoken to a few tributes in training, including his District partner Sadie, who had been friendly enough but guarded. She was probably doing the same as he was, but her survival skills were surely not equal to his. Then there was Geraint, who had seemed intelligent enough but over-merciful. And that oaf Joshua, who had called him 'Matt', despite the clear warning glances he'd given him. Obviously a sign of a lack of thought and consideration.

So Matthew was better alone. And if he could find a place where he could stay alone…well that would just make things easier.

He had no qualms with killing opponents, of course. He'd murdered that uncivilised Leonidas yesterday because he'd just made it all too easy for him. But it was far less…_risky_ to wait for them to murder each other. If he'd analysed them correctly, there were at least two or three killers who would be hunting down the tributes, not to mention those that would team up to do so. There was no need for him to do the same. He just had to find somewhere to hold up until it all blew over.

And as he looked across the great expanse of swamp, his face broke into a thin smile of satisfaction. There was a rock in the distance, perhaps a sheltered area in the marsh? Certainly it would be hard for the others to see, let alone get to. He would be secure from the interferences of his enemies, and could stay there until it came down to the wire.

"Perfect for solitude," said Matthew with a grin.

All he had to do was traverse the marshlands: not an easy feat. But Matthew had trained all his life just in case of such a situation. There was a bog, admittedly much smaller than this one, not far from one of his father's fields. He knew what was truly safe and what only appeared safe. And he was willing to bet that his strong, vicious but untrained opponents did not have such knowledge. When in the swamp, he would just have to wait and watch as the other tributes floundered. It could actually be rather fun!

Matthew checked his sword and Leonidas' spear were still in place at his belt. He adjusted the tightness of the pack at his back. And quickly, he hurried, in leaps and bounds, across the marshlands.

The other tributes could fight all they wanted. But he would be waiting, and as soon as they were weak enough, he would emerge from his swamp. And strike.


	7. The Watchers

Chapter 7: The Watchers

Since the bloodbath of the first day, Harriet had not seen anybody else. She had heard many footsteps near their resting places, but nobody had dared tackle them. It was now the evening of day two and she was unhurt in this most barbaric of competitions.

She put that mostly down to the skill of her teammate. Bracken was a clever lad, she'd always known that, but he also had a natural talent for stealth and seemingly excellent hearing. Long before she noticed anybody, he would throw himself down on the floor and cock his crossbow quicker than she could blink. All Harriet could do was copy him. And during the periods when there were few other tributes noticeable, he would teach her to hit a tree with a crossbow.

He had started with thick, vine encrusted trunks from a close distance. Once she had got used to the recoil, even Harriet found this easy, but when Bracken increased the range and made her shoot smaller targets, she began to struggle. For him, it just seemed all too easy.

Bracken and Harriet went a long way back. Despite the hurt and the death that they both knew was happening around them, the pair were able to smile and take heart from the other's presence, as they immersed themselves in training. They would even laugh every now and then, and Harriet even allowed herself a little cheer when she hit a tree perfectly on her first attempt.

It helped that they had been the last to leave the starting area after warding off Gwen with their bows. They'd been able to pick and choose from the supplies, take on both food and liquids, and select some of the better remaining weapons. Bracken carried a light, delicate sabre along with a crossbow, while Harriet hefted a boar spear and the better of the two crossbows. Bracken had insisted she take it, as the less accomplished shot. But she was working on it.

By the middle of the second day she was able to hit a target from almost any angle and distance, if she was given enough time. Bracken declared the rest of the day to be best used for finding water. It then proceeded to rain furiously, during which time they heard two more cannons fire. There was no point dwelling on any deaths, despite the fondness both of them felt for some of their fellow tributes. It was just about the two of them now.

But it was not long before the rain subsided, to be replaced by the sound of a river. Tentatively, Bracken stepped out from the jungle to a rocky area, a river flowing through it at speed. After they had waited long enough to ensure it wasn't a trap, they hurried out to fill up their skins. As they did so, Harriet spotted something.

"Bracken, look," she said.

After he had hurried over, she indicated a stone that was a slightly different colour to the rest of them. Mostly, it was light grey, but one side of it appeared to have been stained a fierce dark red. Bracken looked grim.

"Blood," he said darkly. "Someone else has been here, and it didn't end well for them. Good spot."

As he walked over to the edge of the nearby waterfall, Harriet felt a strong pride in herself for impressing her skilful partner. It was comforting, in a place of such fear and mistrust, to contribute to a team. And impressing Bracken, both with her finding and crossbow skills, was particularly satisfying, considering all that he had done for her. She wanted to give something back.

"Harriet!" cried Bracken. "Come and look!"

He was peering over the edge of the rocks next to the waterfall. Harriet gasped as she went to join him. Stretching away into the distance was a vast expanse of marshlands. The mist that continued to hang around after the rainstorm shrouded its far edge where neither of them could make it out, though Harriet considered her eyes to be very sharp. But looking down nearer to them, she did spot something else.

A figure, hurriedly yet carefully negotiating the swamp. As she watched, it made a great jump to negotiate a gap between footholds, and it turned as it landed. A broad face stared up in their direction. Harriet recognised him at once.

"Matthew! I haven't seen him all Games!"

She had rather liked Matthew. He was intelligent, friendly and handsome enough in a stocky way. A bit distant, sure, and his wealth gave him a rather self-important air, but he didn't come off as a brutal murderer. She had thought he might be somebody she could work with against the savagery of this contest.

"Hey," suggested Bracken from alongside her. "Want to try out your crossbow on a moving target?"

"Certainly not!"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Bracken smiled. "But let's step back from the edge, just in case he has a bow on him."

However, as he spoke Matthew turned away, and set off across the marsh once more. Soon, if he kept going, he would vanish into the mist.

"I wonder where he's going?" said Harriet.

"It doesn't matter," Bracken replied, as he stepped away from the cliff edge. "Listen, he could well have killed people already. Do you see the weapons he's carrying? It's just you and me now. We have to get through this together. That's what's important."

Harriet reluctantly nodded. She didn't like it, but that's how these damn Games worked. But she wouldn't let herself be sucked into them. They wouldn't make a monster out of her, even if they'd made one out of Matthew and the others. She turned away and looked over the area.

"This would be a great spot for an ambush," she worried. "Others will have been here already, for water."

"Well luckily they have missed us. I don't want to ambush anybody." Bracken sniffed. "If anyone is dying at my hand it should be honourable. That's why I didn't shoot Gwen in the back."

Harriet agreed. This was why they made a good team. Neither of them was going to compromise the other's principles, because they were the same. Even if everyone else in the competition resorted to brutality, the District 11s wouldn't.

"Let's move on," she said. "There's still time left for crossbow training before sunset. I need to learn to shoot faster."

They melted back into the jungle.

* * *

Sigrun had had a productive couple of days. After making the first kill at the start, she'd been satisfied with her work and headed out immediately. Her opponents might have pegged her as an all brawn, no brains type, but that was far from the case. She had killed Nail to create fear. Not many would try and attack someone who'd commit murder so unhesitantly. And then she'd headed off as fast as she could, to give herself enough time to build a shelter comfortably before nightfall.

The axe had helped in that regard. There were plenty of thin trees in the rainforest, enough for her to quickly chop them and secure herself. She would be safe enough for the night, and had slept long and well. Sigrun did not have the moral qualms or the fear of many of her opponents. She would do what she had to do to win. If anyone got in her way, she would kill them. As long as they stayed out of her way, she would let them be.

She had remained in the shelter for most of the day. A large squirrel-like creature had climbed it during the rainstorm; Sigrun had simply pulled herself out, hacked down the tree it had tried to escape up and threw her axe to pin its fleeing body to the floor. So she had had her first meat. Again, she could give thanks to the axe.

But as the rain stopped she decided it was time to move on. She had collected plenty of rainwater in a flask for drinking, and the squirrel would last her for the day. But the rain had done her shelter little good, and it wouldn't last her the whole games. It was time to find somewhere more secure.

So now she strode onwards, gradually moving uphill, using the axe as a third leg to pull herself on. Sigrun moved at a surprising pace considering her size. She kept an eye out for animals, because food was always important. She liked animals as well; they were always interesting to watch when you weren't hungry. She certainly liked them more than the people she was sharing this arena with.

As she lurched onwards, she caught a glimpse of an end to the jungle. Daylight was bursting though the foliage ahead of her. Carefully edging forwards, Sigrun emerged from the trees. With her axe held in a strong two-handed grip in front of her, she looked imposing.

The scene was of a cliff edge; a long plateau stretching out into emptiness. An interesting spot, she thought, to survey the arena properly for the first time. She had very little idea of what it consisted of, having barely moved since the previous day.

Sigrun remained careful; slowly stalking outwards until she was sure she was alone on the plateau. Peering over the edge, she was greeted with quite a site. The arena was spread out in front of her. Nearest she could see the clearing and the island where they had started. It appeared deserted. Further off was another cliff, and almost so far away she could not see it stretched a great marsh.

It was a solid, not particularly fragile cliff edge. Perhaps, she thought, she could stay here. Make herself a new camp. After all, she couldn't be surrounded. But as she turned back towards the jungle to look for trees to chop, a dusty figure froze from its prone position behind her. Sigrun saw the narrow, pinched face and the bony torso, and immediately recognised Dana, Nail's District partner. A second before she leapt.

An instinctive lashing out of her axe struck Dana with the flat and sent her spinning away back from the edge. The girl sprang upwards without a pause. She bared her teeth at Sigrun. It was startling how much she had changed in such a short time. Sigrun saw that she had grown even skinnier than usual, and appeared to carry nothing but two thin knives, gripped in each hand like claws. She'd even cut her hair close to her skull, presumably to keep it out of the tangling branches. The little thief's humanity had never been obvious in the first place, but now it was further away than ever.

Dana launched herself forward with a snarl, as Sigrun swung her axe. But the speed of her opponent caught her off guard, as Dana swiftly ducked under the blow and thrust with her left hand. Sigrun brought her axe haft down heavily on the hand before it could reach her flesh. The knife was sent spinning away down off the edge of the plateau.

But as Sigrun paused, expecting Dana to back off again, her tenacious opponent sprang through the air faster than she could think, gripping a knife in two hands and reaching for Sigrun's eyes. All she could do was drop her axe and grab Dana's hands with her own, a fraction of a second before the knife cut into her face.

Two pairs of hands gripped tightly together, in teeth-clenching silence as they wrestled for each other's lives. But slowly, surely, Sigrun began to force her smaller opponent back. Dana was stronger than she looked, but she was nothing next to the force of Sigrun.

Eventually, with a burst of effort, Dana was flung away, knife and all. She landed on all fours like a spider. With a screech she sprung one final time, but Sigrun had had time to seize her axe once more and lash out at the girl. This time it connected, or at least the flat of the blade did. There came a last wail from Dana, and then she was gone.

Sigrun wasted no time in hurrying to the edge. There were tall trees below her, but the only sign of her enemy was a continued swaying from several of them. When, after a decent time waiting, there was still no cannon, she resigned herself to Dana's survival. She'd have a tough time getting back up though.

Finally she had some time to look around her new home. Sigrun, despite her unforgiving, harsh looks, had a deep appreciation for the beauty of nature. Up here, she could ignore the circumstances for her presence and just enjoy the view. It was very similar to the great swathes of forest she was familiar with in her District, only more tropical. But up here the burning heat was overwhelmed by the wind that rushed through her hair. Sigrun could be content here. She could watch the starting area for signs of activity, and the others would hopefully keep out of her way.

She needed a wall though, just to further secure her position. Her axe, gods bless it, was perfect for hewing great trunks, and she wouldn't need especially thick ones for a simple palisade. The plentiful vines would work as ropes to lash together the logs too. Sigrun was a woodcutter. What better to make her feel at home than woodcutting?

She hefted her axe once more, and got to work.


	8. Hostage Situation

Chapter 8: Hostage Situation

The body of Julia had dissuaded Gregory and Brianna from staying in the place they had killed her for long. For all that they had been responsible, it still felt _wrong _to make camp by a dead body. What's more, they didn't know whether a revitalised Aurelia would return for her partner. Though they were both nursing injuries, it was important to move on. At least, that's what Brianna said.

Gregory was letting her make the decisions. It was a lot easier to do things he'd never dreamt of if he was told to do them. And she hadn't led them wrong yet. Their team-up at the start had successfully warded off all their opponents, nobody else having planned prior to the Games in that way. Even Leonidas had left them alone! And now he was dead, and the two of them, who according to their training scores could not equal Leonidas combined, had flourished.

At least, until that morning. Brianna had urged offensive tactics. They couldn't wait around and give the others a chance to team-up and come for them. So on seeing a barely awake partnership of two vulnerable looking girls, they went for the ambush. Of course, they hadn't got that good a look and had failed to realise that one of them was a Career. Fortunately, she'd been an unarmed Career, and when Aurelia had abandoned her, she eventually went down.

But it had come at a price. Brianna had to pause and bind a cut to her lower stomach, while Gregory was badly bruised on one side where he'd been struck by Julia. In the chaos of the skirmish he hadn't even noticed the pain, but it was making it hard to walk at a good speed.

Brianna led the way, as ever, through the jungle. She had been the one who had planned all their ideas, and she'd been the one to kill Julia. Gregory felt better that it hadn't been his hand. But Brianna said that it was a dog-eat-dog world, and he supposed that was true. But he still missed the simplicity of his farm.

After an earlier rainstorm, it was now the hottest part of the day. They retained plenty of water, having grabbed a lot at the start, but the heat was causing Gregory to crave finishing it all off. He knew Brianna would ban him though. And she would be right, too. He wished they would stop soon.

Just as he thought this, Brianna came upon a slightly more open area. She smiled.

"Perfect! We can rest here for a while."

Gregory was confused. "Why would we stay out in the open? Surely we might be seen easily there?"

Brianna considered his suggestion. "You might be right. After all, you're the outdoor expert. That's why I keep you! I was just thinking of the aesthetics of the place."

Gregory was perplexed, but knew better than to ask her what 'aesthetics' meant. Sometimes he thought she used long words just to make him feel uneducated, but surely she would never do that? Of course not. They were a team, and they stood by each other. So he just nodded and smiled as she re-slung her pack and shield and headed off.

It wasn't until late in the day that they found an acceptable spot. They heaped their things in a pile among a copse of thicker vegetation, to hopefully be as inconspicuous as possible. The trees were so closely packed that the area seemed almost as dark as night. Brianna appeared satisfied.

"If you bend the smaller trees you can probably break them without an axe," she said. "Then we can put them around us to make more shade."

Gregory turned to look at her, and gasped. Stretching out from the shadows was a dark shape, ending in a glint. As it came into focus it resolved itself into an arm, holding a dagger. And it was right behind Brianna.

Gregory yelped out a warning just as the figure slammed its arm around her throat. The weapon was thrust towards her exposed chin, cutting off her cry into a whimper. Gregory searched around on the ground for a weapon. Eventually he saw Brianna's sword glimmering under her backpack. He leapt towards it, raising it up to point shakily but unhesitantly at his opponent. His heart sank as he recognised it.

The face peering from behind Brianna that of Joshua, one of the last remaining Careers. Not someone that Gregory expected to show mercy. He knew he ought to tell him to leave Brianna and to take him instead, but somehow couldn't force out the words. Instead he gave out a generic yell of aggression. It didn't feel as intimidating as when he used it to scare crows off the crops. He kept his sword raised though, to show he meant business. He didn't want to die cowering, begging for deliverance.

But as he looked closer at Joshua, he realised that it wasn't a killing machine looking back at him. Joshua was in a bad way. His sweating was extreme, and not just because of the heat. He appeared to have aged several years in only a day. And his hand was moving erratically around. Several times the short sword he held came dangerously close to nicking his hostage's neck. Brianna looked horrified, like she was trying not to throw up. Gregory didn't blame her. Her life was in the hands of this apparent madman. Gregory edged closer, wondering how he was going to break Joshua's hold with such a slow weapon as this sword.

"Gimme," Joshua broke the silence, his voice stretched and parched. "Gimme your food and I let her go." And he moved his weapon down slightly, enough to let Brianna breathe normally.

As Joshua moved into the light more, Gregory could see his face in detail. What he saw made him lower his sword. The eyes were what gave it away. They bore an expression of extreme regret, of pain that had nothing to do with the state of his body. Gregory may not be an expert on understanding what people said, but when someone guarded their thoughts as little as Joshua did, understanding them through their eyes was easier than seeding a field.

"We can't give our food to you," said Gregory, causing brief panic to appear in the faces of both Brianna and Joshua, "But we can help you. Join us."

As he said it, he tried his hardest to stare straight into Joshua's face. But he couldn't help but see, through the corner of his eye, Brianna's expression transform from terror into incredulous disbelief. He knew she would protest about this, but he had already been responsible for someone's death today. This boy needed help and support, and Gregory was going to give it to him.

"Nobody needs to kill anyone," he added.

Joshua paused, before letting his hand drop. His slow nod said yes, and his face showed the greatest relief he had ever seen. Gregory didn't know if Joshua had murdered anyone yet in these Games, but he was clearly reacting badly to the translation of his training into reality.

Brianna stumbled over to Gregory as Joshua slumped to the ground, clearly exhausted. She hissed into his ear.

"What are you doing? Now we have to share what _we've_ earned with some Career. And for what? So he can kill us in our sleep?"

Gregory took a step back.

"What else would you have me do?" he asked. "He isn't going to hurt us, and it was either this or give him all we had. At least now we can share."

As she drew her breath for a second furious outburst, Gregory cut her off by hurrying over to their new ally. He was exceedingly pleased and relieved that she was unharmed, but he didn't want to get into a war of words that he'd certainly lose. His sword swapped for a drinking flask, he held out the latter to Joshua, who looked small and lost huddled on the ground. He was muttering to himself.

"Nobody needs to…anyone"

"Here." Gregory pressed the flask into his hand. "Looks like you don't have any." Joshua appeared to carry a sword, a bow and plenty of arrows, but no food or water. No wonder he was in such a state.

Joshua looked up at him, and spoke clearly for the first time. "Thank you." He then rolled over to sleep, though it was only the early evening. Gregory was stunned at the transformation from the confident, energetic figure he'd witnessed in training and at the start of the Games.

Looking over to Brianna, he saw confusion, as well as a good amount of frustration. But, as he began to snore quietly, she appeared to become resigned. Shaking her head, she rammed the sword Gregory had dropped into a sheath, before dropping it and seating herself.

Gregory gestured silently to the pathetic form next to him. He needed her approval. Then he would know he had done the right thing. After glaring at him for a while she shrugged and nodded her acceptance, before rolling over without another word. It looked like the first watch was his, but he didn't care. Brianna agreed with him.

At home, if another farmer had a bad harvest or an infected flock then you would give as much of your produce as you were able, knowing that they would do the same for you. He didn't see why that didn't apply here, Games though they were.

* * *

Meanwhile, tangled in a heap of vegetation, below a great cliff, Dana's eyes snapped open. She wasn't one for grogginess; she was either alert or asleep. And immediately she turned to anger. She'd been beaten! And in an ambush too, her specialty. The great lumbering oaf at the top of the cliff had got lucky, but she wouldn't again, oh no.

Seething, Dana sprang up and rushed away, not even waiting for her head to keep spinning. By the time she realised that she was heading in the opposite direction to Sigrun, it would be too late to recalculate.

* * *

The sun set on another sweltering day and the tributes everywhere breathed a sigh of relief. They had survived for a whole two days in the deadly arena…while others had not.

The first face was that of Julia. Many were surprised to see another Career dead; others were sadder to see such a genuinely kind person gone. Aurelia just turned her face away.

After her appeared Francis. Few were shocked to see him eliminated; it had been surprising to see him make it past the first day. But Sadie was disgusted and disappointed in herself that she had not done more to help him survive their attack. Samuel feigned sympathy, but he was truly satisfied. He had timed the flow of the river to perfection.

Finally, there appeared the ferocious expression of Carolina, which elicited widespread relief. Here was a great threat, eliminated. And little Martha, the youngest of the tributes, could not stop herself from gasping. _She _had outlived these great survivors?

Gwen alone cared nothing for who had fallen. With yesterday's death of Leonidas, she was now the favourite; the best warrior in the games. She had no need for teammates or sponsors. With a sword at her side, she knew she could take on anyone she found. And no longer would she wait for them to come for her.

She was going hunting.


	9. The Emerald Horde

Chapter 9: The Emerald Horde

Geraint was forgotten.

He had been hidden away at the top of a tree for the entire Games so far. Nobody had seen him, and he'd seen nobody. He imagined the cameras hadn't shown him once. Not once did he think of victory. Just of surviving the next hour.

This was harder than he imagined. He had gone into the Games with a bafflingly high training score of 10. So naturally, there was reason for optimism, and his confidence was high as he had leapt from his platform and charged towards the weapons. The hefty Francis had grabbed a flail and begun to swing it slowly, making it easy for him to dart in and grab it from him. But as he did so, the enormous tribute Leonidas had slammed into him, picked him up bodily, and tossed him away like a sack of potatoes. Geraint didn't have time to think about how short a time he had lasted before he had blacked out.

For most in his position, that would have been it. Being unconscious with a raging battle happening around you was not conducive to survival. But miraculously, he had found himself returning to life.

It was much later in the day when he had opened his eyes again, and the clearing around the island was deserted. Or at least, it appeared to be. He stumbled up from the rock he had been laid out on, and fervently looked around. The jungle had seemed to stare at him. The sun was beginning to set, but it was still high enough to give off plenty of light. But who knew what the trees were hiding? His head spinning, Geraint had shambled off towards the tree-line.

It was only then that he realised that his head was still in pain. He wasn't just recovering from blacking out. Slowly, Geraint had raised his hand to his head. It was sticky.

Bringing his hand forward again, he had realised it was sticky with his blood.

It was now the third day of the Games and he still felt light-headed. He had bound his head as well as he could with large, flat leaves. Now he sat in the same tree he had found on that first evening, hungry, thirsty and in need of a weapon.

The weapon was hugely important. He had seen at the start that there were people out there who were perfectly happy to kill you. They would be hunting for tributes. And Geraint, unarmed and still wounded, was not going to be able to fend them off.

His feelings towards these Games were gradually solidifying into solid antagonism. Before they had begun he had admitted that, while they were brutal and unnecessary, he somewhat relished the challenge. Geraint was from District 12, an underdog District, but his training score was 10! He had really thought he had a chance.

But now he was sat in a tree, longing for some sort of release. During his first night here he had seen the face of Leonidas light up the sky. But there was no joy in the discovery that the one who had nearly killed him was gone. They were all victims, and there would probably be no real winner. He had realised that he did not enjoy death. But Geraint was not ready to let it take him yet.

This meant that he had to finally do something. He could waste away in this tree forever, lamenting his life, or he could set off and try and better his situation. Make his father proud of him. His father was a big strong man who always seemed to want to be in the Games itself. He thought of what he'd be doing now. Probably yelling at the screen for Geraint to go and fight the others like a man. Yes, that was it. He would always give the tributes advice from the safety of his home. Only now did Geraint see how horrendous a habit that was.

Nevertheless, early in the morning of the third day, Geraint did as he knew he was being told. Sliding down from his safe haven, he set off towards the only place he knew had supplies. The starting area.

As he went, trying not to jump at any slight sound, he thought about the other tributes. The dangerous Careers were stripped of many of their members already, including Leonidas, the biggest of all. Carolina, the fire-starting tribute, was gone too. Geraint had marked her as a threat. But there were fewer casualties than he had expected by this point. Of the survivors, he knew Joshua, Sidney and Dana were capable killers. The latter two seemed to be borderline psychopaths. And Sigrun hadn't hesitated to murder Nail at the start of the Games either. Neither had he seen any signs of Matthew, one of the most physically fit of all the tributes. He was hardly a favourite here, considering his condition.

He dwelled on Gwen the longest. Though he hadn't known her before the Games, she was technically his District partner. Whenever they'd spoken previously she'd been short, but polite with him. Her training score of 11 suggested a certain ruthlessness, but he found it hard to believe she'd stoop so low as to attack him. No, Gwen at least wasn't someone to worry about. At least, not yet.

Finally the trees were beginning to thin, and Geraint still hadn't seen anybody. He stepped cautiously out into the starting clearing. As he nervously scanned the area, memories of the first time he had done this flooded back. And, just as it was that time, he got lucky. There was no sign of movement.

But as he advanced towards the island his heart sank in his chest. There was a major change from the first day. It was completely empty of weapons, supplies, or the tables where they had been placed.

He waded across the stream and climbed onto the island itself, but it was no better close to. The only sign of the conflict were a few bloodstains and the occasional splinter of wood. Sometime in the last couple of days, the men from the Capitol had cleaned up. How was he going to arm himself now? Even the discarded weapons of the dead had been taken away.

Geraint resigned himself to a hiding strategy. At least he could get water. Kneeling next to the stream, he began to fill a leaf-formed container with the liquid from it. It didn't look overly dirty, though there was a tree-branch lying in it. He scrambled up.

_Wait a second._

This was a large clearing. There were no trees above this part of the river! So how would a branch get in there?

Geraint looked back down into the water. Crouching, he peered through the water, his eyes following the end of the branch upwards. It glinted.

Slowly, reverently, he stretched down for it. He pulled out a long, slender blade, the perfect length and weight for him to use. Geraint was trained using axes, but a sword was a sword. It would not be hard for him to use one.

He wondered if it was a gift from his sponsors. Unlikely; it had been here before he arrived. Someone had likely dropped it during the fight, and it had been missed when they were collected. But nevertheless he raised it towards the sky; to where he knew the cameras were at long last trained on him. To where everyone he knew would be watching.

"Thank you," said Geraint, quietly but clearly. And then, pushing the sword and the water into his belt, he set off with a new determination.

He didn't like these Games. But, whether he wanted it or not, he was back in them.

* * *

Sidney had sprung from his sleep that morning in a buoyant mood. He had killed Carolina, that was important, but it was more significant that he had beaten her. Sidney was not a simple madman. He had feelings too, and it rankled with him how those at home had written him off as a stupid murderer, while favouring Carolina as being more all-round skilled.

Now he had shown that he could do everything. Carolina had outfought him, but he had _outwitted _her. Persuaded her to spare him, and then tracked her down. Tracking was easy. He had needed to do it at home all the time, to hunt. After all, he had been banned from the fishing areas, and nobody had ever bothered to provide for him.

Sidney hadn't even needed to take Carolina on. He had just waited and reaped the rewards. And now his foolish District comrades had only _him _left to support. Their hopes rested on one they had dismissed as idiotic. Well now they had better hope he wasn't.

And of course, thought Sidney, they would be well-placed in their hope. Things had gone swimmingly so far. Sure, he'd lost his left arm, but he didn't need that one anyway. And he had bound it brilliantly, and had a bloody spear to make up for it. He had even killed a squirrel with it the previous day, after he got Carolina. This weapon he now used to haul himself to his feet. He needed to leave camp for new prey. But as he looked around for a good path to head down, his eyes were caught by a different sort of beast.

A small bird, looking enquiringly at him. Sidney had hunted birds a lot in his District, and this was one he had never seen before. It was staring right at him, no fear in its eyes. Perhaps it had never seen people before! Sidney was fascinated by animals, and having recently eaten, had no reason to kill this one. Slowly he edged closer to it.

It was blue-grey in colour, and dainty in its looks and movements. Its mouth was open, giving off a low _whirr _instead of singing. But as he neared the animal its beak audibly slammed shut. It cocked its head, staring straight at him. Its eyes gleamed like emeralds. Sidney had never seen anything like it.

He was now so close he could touch it. A quick flutter of wings and it was in the air, but Sidney was stunned when, instead of fleeing, it remained there, hovering like a hummingbird, only a few feet from his face. His face broke into a genuine smile, his first non-smirk of the Games. This animal was superb.

It opened its beak again. Its _whirr _echoed around, as if coming from all angles. And that was when Sidney stepped back, and realised that this wasn't a single bird. While he'd been focused on this one, it had been joined by its whole family.

Hundreds of small, blue shapes were fluttering down from the canopy above. Some landed on branches to stare at him unblinkingly, while others hovered like the one in front of him. But all kept up the building whirring noise, until it threatened to deafen Sidney.

At first his smile stayed on, wondering at the huge groups these birds formed. But his unease began to build as they all continued to look at him. This was not normal songbird behaviour. A thousand gleaming eyes fixed upon Sidney. He gulped, and raised his spear, knowing it would not help. He turned towards the first bird again. Its beak snapped shut. Suddenly there was silence.

Tentatively, Sidney stepped back, trying to get out of this ring of animals, if animals they were. But the first bird did not stop its steady glare. Its beak reopened as it launched itself forward, its comrades with it.

_WHIRR._

A thousand pinpricks struck Sidney to the sound of a cannon.


	10. Memories of a Murderer

Chapter 10: Memories of a Murderer

Joshua woke up on the morning of the third day feeling alert. His sleep had been long and content. With his new teammates at his side, he felt safe.

It was amazing how much he had changed since the start of the Games. On that day, he had stood above the protesting body of Simon, and stabbed him. For the crime of being in his way.

That was what he had been told to do. Kill, and make alliances with other killers. It was easy not to think, to just go by what he had been told. But Joshua had had two days to think. He had been alone. There had been nothing else to do. And when offered the opportunity to join up with Gregory and Brianna, he couldn't say no.

They were people he could rely on, perhaps. He had threatened him, and they had let him live. Exactly the opposite of what he had done to Simon. He didn't care what the District thought of him. Joshua was happier not being a killing machine.

On awakening, he realised that Gregory and Brianna were both looking at him. They were standing, and must have been up for hours. Damn it. He had overslept. If he hadn't had his new teammates, Joshua might have been killed.

"Thank you. I owe my life to you two, probably," said Joshua.

He felt the need to tell them. Yesterday his state of mind wasn't good enough to do so. But now they deserved his thanks.

"You're more eloquent than yesterday," sniffed Brianna, turning away from him. "Now, we've been, um, _discussing _you," she continued. Gregory looked very uncomfortable at this. "We're going to need you to contribute if you're going to stay with us."

Joshua detected a bit of sharpness in her comment, but thought nothing of it. After all, she barely knew him, and he'd put a dagger to her throat yesterday.

"'Course," he replied, scrambling to his feet. "What do you want me to do?

Brianna gave Gregory a Look.

"Um," Gregory ventured. "We haven't done any hunting yet today. Do you think you-?"

He indicated Joshua's bow, which lay next to him. Of course! That was how he would impress his allies! He would get them food, and then they'd value him as one of the team!

"Already going," Joshua sprang up and hurried out to scan the area for birds.

"Uhhh…you forgot your bow," came the apologetic cry from Gregory.

Joshua turned back, grabbed it, and raced off to the sound of a sigh from Brianna. That sigh wouldn't last long; he would make sure of that!

In fact, it wasn't long at all before he had bagged a squirrel and two pigeons. The area they were in was rich in wildlife, and Joshua was an ace shot. He set off back towards Gregory and Brianna's camp. It felt good to be doing this for other people.

When he had been a small child, his mother had told him to do to others what he'd like to be done to himself. Sternly, she would tell him off for all things cruel, all things petty. She would tell him that he should get people presents to thank them for things they'd helped him with. And little Joshua happily went along with it, just to see other people joyful at things he'd done.

But when Joshua had reached Tribute age, that had changed. He'd been trained up, every day devoted to physical fitness and the capability to kill. He was taught to fire a bow like a master. The targets had been shaped like people. And to use a sword; to know what thrusting into flesh felt like.

But most importantly he was told, again and again, to stifle that part of Joshua that his mother had created. He was tall and imposing enough to keep him from being bullied by the other boys, and so created a 'tough' sort of persona. It was easy to be ruthless when everyone around you was telling you to. When there was nobody to tell you right from wrong.

But inside him, and not that deep either, there had always been that nagging doubt. What would his mother say? He hadn't seen her since he was ten. District Two boys didn't need mothers. But now there was no overseers, no trainers, not even any other Careers, to keep him on the wrong path. All he had left were his memories of what they'd taught him. But the memories of his mother were stronger. And now, he was feeding instead of killing.

Joshua had spent the first two days feeling like a villain. Now, finally, he could see what it was like to be a hero.

* * *

Harriet was frustrated.

She had hit a wall with her crossbow work. Her accuracy was nearly as good as Bracken's now, but she just couldn't do it as quickly or as tidily as he could. Bracken would load the bow and then fire in an instant, and he was often firing his second bolt while she was still fumbling with the first. It took a surprising strength and energy to keep the weapon cycling through, and Bracken, despite his small frame, was able to keep his energy up despite all the Games threw at him.

Harriet, on the other hand, felt they were finally starting to take their toll. Her energy was just not what it had been even yesterday. Bracken had shot a bird this morning, a slender pigeon-like creature with a reddish breast, but it had barely sustained her until midday. It also appeared to be a solitary creature; their attempts to find more had been unsuccessful. The food the two of them had taken on the first day had gradually petered out into nothingness. Their packs were empty save for their skins of water, and even these were beginning to drain. And who knew if the river they had been to the previous day would still be safe?

Bracken was, as ever, remaining positive. He tried to keep her focused on the crossbow practice, but Harriet knew he was just attempting to distract her from what was occurring around them. They had seen few signs of any other tributes (Bracken theorised that they'd likely been dispersing since the first day) but there were constant reminders of the horrors of the situation they were in. That very morning another cannon had sounded, and Harriet hated not knowing who it had been. Good-natured Geraint? Matthew, who they'd seen alive and well just yesterday? Or, worst of all, Martha, the youngest, most vulnerable and pitiable of them all?

The nights were worst though. The faces that lit up the sky each struck Harriet's heart, as much as she wanted to disassociate herself with them. Last night had been Julia (she'd been so much kinder than the Career stereotype!), Carolina (Harriet had thought she'd been too tough to go out so soon) and worst of all, Francis.

Poor, fat Francis. He'd been a simple soul, used to not having to deal with hardship. Harriet remembered how optimistic he'd been about these Games, having ridiculed the low score the Capitol had given him. But they'd all known that he wasn't lasting long. Another innocent victim. In Harriet's mind, there was no need for this to happen.

All she could do was stay with Bracken. As long as they stuck by each other, and didn't go on the hunt for their 'enemies', they were going in the face of what the Capitol wanted.

And she knew she could rely on Bracken. They were completely honest with one another: no killing except in self-defence, and they were going to stay together until the end. Bracken wasn't the sort to break that promise. And neither was she.

"Come on," he said now. "Give it one more try."

Harriet wiped the sweat from her forehead and focused her weapon on the target; a leaf dangling from a branch about 50 feet away. Trying to ignore the rest of her surroundings, including a small bird that irritatingly flitted across her vision, Harriet stared at it, calculating the distance and the wind speed. She looked intensely down the sites, before releasing.

It was immediately obvious that she was far off the target. Notching another bolt to the bow, she fired again. This time it whisked past the leaf, leaving it fluttering in the air. Harriet exhaled in frustration.

"Calm down." Bracken was there in an instant. "You've got to be able to do this in stressful situations and if you're getting annoyed now, when there are no threats around, then there is no way you'll keep your cool later. Relax. I know you can do this."

His calm smile never failed to make her return it. Newly encouraged, she aimed at the leaf one final time. She only had a single bolt left for practicing, so she would make it worth it.

Harriet fired.

With a _twang _the bolt neatly clipped through the twig joining the leaf to the branch. As the missile flew on, the leaf fluttered slowly downwards. Elated, Harriet turned towards Bracken.

"I did it! Did you see that, I-"

But Bracken was still watching where she had fired. Harriet turned, a question forming on her lips. But she shut her mouth when she saw what he had seen.

The leaf continued to fall, in a graceful spiral that almost seemed like slow motion. But before it reached the ground, it was caught. The hand that held it was dirty, hardened by effort. And strong. The leaf was crumbled into paste.

Gwen stepped forward. "Hello Eleven. Fancy seeing you again."

Harriet fumbled for a bolt, before she remembered that they'd all been fired. Gwen's expression was grim. She drew her sword, and advanced.


	11. Blade against Blade

**A/N: Likely to be the last update for about a week, but as it ends the third day I think it's a decent stopping point.**

Chapter 11: Blade against Blade

Gwen continued to advance, unhurriedly stalking towards Bracken and Harriet. Harriet backed away, her unloaded crossbow in her hands, but the jungle behind her was too tightly packed for a quick escape. It appeared Bracken had realised the same thing. He was fumbling in their packs for something.

As Gwen got closer and closer, Bracken suddenly gave out a triumphant cry and yanked out the second crossbow. Another quick search unearthed a solitary bolt. In a flash he had loaded it and directed it unflinchingly at Gwen. This caused her to stop abruptly. Gwen's broadsword hung loosely in her hand, while another equally large blade hung at her belt. Along with her firm expression and strong pose, it gave her an intimidating look.

For a moment there was silence between the three of them, broken only by the wind and the distant whirring of birds. Bracken's crossbow did not even quiver as it pointed directly at their enemies heart. Surely, thought Harriet, Gwen had to retreat now. It would only take a second for it all to be over for her.

But Gwen did not retreat. Instead she put her head to one side, staring Bracken straight in the eye (and ignoring Harriet completely).

"Don't come any closer!" Bracken spoke for the first time. "Even you can't stop this!"

Gwen didn't move.

"Just leave," ventured Harriet. "We don't need to fight again. You _said _that you only killed Emily so the others would leave you alone!"

At that, Gwen finally looked away from them. Harriet thought for a second that she was actually going to leave, but then she looked back up. Her eyes were steady. She spoke.

"That was then. But I can only wait so long for things to happen without me. And the faster I finish this, the better it will be for us all."

"Finish?" Bracken spoke up. "How can you be so certain you're going to win?"

"I am the best fighter left. With Leonidas gone and the Careers killed or separated, there is no one left who can beat me."

Gwen's tone was matter-of-fact. She seemed completely uncaring of the people she would have to kill. Harriet was repulsed. So she replied to their enemy with anger.

"We can beat you! You fled from us back at the start. You _know _you can't beat an arrow."

"Leave now and you will live," Bracken added. He held the crossbow as firmly as he had at the start.

But now Gwen seemed to have made her mind up.

"I stick by what I said before. You're not wicked people, Eleven. You didn't shoot me in the back before. That would be the act of a coward, after all."

Bracken stayed in position. "I'm not afraid of being called a coward."

"Oh really," replied Gwen. "How about being called…dishonourable. Unfair." And she stepped closer. "I see you have a sword. So do I." She loosened her belt so that her second weapon fell to the ground, and stepped free of it. Closer to Bracken.

"Fight me, Eleven. One against one. Blade against blade."

Harriet looked at Bracken. His cool demeanour was gone. His face was tight, and though he looked down the crossbow still, his eyes seemed to be somewhere else.

"Bracken?" asked Harriet. It came out as a whisper.

Her partner seemed to return to himself. Slowly, he lowered the crossbow. Then, with equal precision, he pulled the sabre from his belt. Gwen took up her own weapon in both hands, and advanced. But Bracken, still holding his crossbow, held up his hand to stop her.

"I will fight you. On one condition."

"Yes, she can go free," Gwen cut him off.

Bracken was surprised. "How did you-"

"I know your type," scoffed Gwen. "Full of emotion and feelings for those around you, even if those people will be gone soon. She is not going to outlive you long, in any case. But I won't kill her if you will fight me."

Harriet interjected at this point. "I won't stand by and watch you die for me, Bracken!"

Bracken turned to look at her. He was smiling. It was a sad smile, on the face of one who knew that he might not have long left. But to Harriet, it reminded her of so much else.

The days back in their district when Bracken would help her with her work. He would encourage her to keep going when she was tired, and even when he was in pain he would have a grin for her. The resigned look on his face when he saw that she had volunteered with him, which quickly turned into a smile and a shake of his head. And most of all, all the help, the heroics, and the kindness he'd shown her during the last three days. In times of suffering, some people crumbled. But he'd only become stronger. And she knew that what she wanted wasn't important. He was doing this to save her; she didn't have the right to question what he wished.

So Harriet gulped, and instead of protesting, just said "Thank you." It was all that needed to be said.

"So are we fighting now, or aren't we?" came the voice of Gwen. She stood right in front of them now; twirling her sword in her hands like it was made of paper. But she hadn't attacked them. There was at least a trace of honour in the killer in front of them.

Harriet walked over to her things. She hauled her sack onto her back, filling it with her bow and water flask. Finally she strapped the heavy spear she could just about use to her back. She needed to be ready to leave, with Bracken or without him.

The two adversaries were circling each other now. As Gwen was so much closer, Harriet could see that she wasn't nearly as big as she appeared. She was strong and sturdily built, but was not really any taller than Bracken was, and he was shorter than Harriet. The difference was clear, however, in the way they used their blades. Bracken held his in one hand, and was light on his feet, looking for an opening. Gwen, on the other hand, stayed immobile, her legs apart and her sword gripped tightly in both her hands. It was clear which one was more confident in their own power.

"So you say that emotion and feelings are worthless, Gwen?" said Bracken as he danced around her. "Don't you have any of your own?"

"I never said that, you dolt," came the short reply.

"So who is it you care for? Can't see much of it here," Bracken teased. Harriet was surprised at how relaxed he was.

Gwen didn't reply, instead putting her left foot forward and aiming a great swing at Bracken's body. He darted backwards out of harm's way, but her only response was to lunge again, forcing him back towards the thick part of the jungle.

A quick glance backwards seemed to convince Bracken that he needed to get onto the other side of Gwen. He ducked her next lunge, before diving beneath her arm and scrambling to her feet behind his opponent. Gwen made a frustrated noise and turned towards where Bracken was now, still keeping out of her reach.

"I'll answer your question," she said through gritted teeth. "I said it was foolish to care for other people _here_. Emotions are a waste in the Hunger Games. We are all going to die- except one of us. And if I die, that would destroy my parents. Their lives would be forever ruined. And their feelings-" she lunged at Bracken "-are more important to me than yours!"

At this the blade finally connected, cutting into Bracken's shoulder as he tried to roll away. He briefly clutched it with one hand, but the wound was not deep. Bracken backed away again. His evasive tactics and conversation had only worked as a delaying strategy. The result now seemed inevitable.

What's more, Gwen was done talking. Bracken's slender sabre was held in front of him defensively, but it only took one sweep of Gwen's larger weapon to send it clattering away. Bracken's retreat was now accompanied by an urgent glance towards Harriet. They knew each other well enough for her to understand. He wanted her to run.

But as Harriet looked behind her, she realised how thick the rainforest around them was. If Gwen chased her, and she surely would, then Harriet wouldn't get far before that sword cut through the vegetation. And then Bracken's sacrifice would be for nothing.

The only clear area of forest was behind the fighters, which meant that she had to bypass Gwen to escape from her! As she panicked about this, she realised that Bracken was on the ground. Gwen had finally swept his feet from under him. Harriet would have cried out if she wasn't already worried about getting away herself. She knew trying to save him was pointless. And after all, it wasn't what he wanted. But escape seemed equally difficult.

Gwen, standing over her fallen foe, raised her sword high. "You are brave. I will make this quick."

But Bracken didn't wait for it to fall. Instead, with an incomprehensible yell, he flung himself from the ground towards Gwen.

She yelled too, and began to lash out with her sword at his body. The scuffling pair tumbled to the ground in front of the stunned Harriet. But then she realised. He was buying her time. And it was not her place to waste his final gift.

Hefting her gear, Harriet rallied her energy and sprinted off, running with all she had in the direction of the clear forest, the direction from which Gwen had arrived and spoilt their happiness. A cannon split the air as she ran, but Harriet saved her tears for Bracken until she was safe. Tumbling down into a low ditch, she sat, trying to control her heavy breathing, and listened for Gwen.

But she needn't have worried. Gwen's distant footsteps faded away almost immediately. She had done as she had promised. Harriet had lived.

And now, and only now, could she let the tears flow. For Bracken, a boy who did not deserve his fate.

But just as she began to rise from her hole, her eyes caught something. A crossbow bolt, sitting on the earth in front of her. It must have been the one she had hit the leaf with. And with a renewed determination, Harriet tightly gripped the final reminder of all Bracken had taught her. She would do all she could to make sure he did not die in vain. And she swore, if she saw Gwen again, this weapon would end up in her chest.

* * *

The end of the third day of the Games brought two more faces to the sky. Sidney, one that few would miss. And Bracken, for whom many shed a tear. But the prevailing thought in many minds was this. They were three days into the Games and only ten tributes had fallen. However well the survivors had done, the biggest task was surely ahead of them.


	12. Partnerships

Chapter 12: Partnerships

The sun rose up on the fourth day of the Games. 14 tributes saw it rise, and breathed out in relief. They had made it another day.

Deep, deeper than anyone else in this jungle wilderness, sat a house. At least, that's what it looked like. Formed of long branches bent upwards, it was shaped like the hut of some ancestral Native American tribe. All that was missing was a twirl of smoke funnelling from the top. And its resident was perhaps the most surprised at all that she could see this sunrise.

For Martha, the first day of the Games had been hell. After narrowly avoiding being murdered by Samuel immediately, her District partner Atticus had dragged her away as quickly as possible. Unfortunately for Martha, he had not slowed down upon reaching the comparative safety of the tree line. Atticus had much longer legs and was fitter than she was, and she had to force herself into exhaustion to keep close to him. It didn't help that she didn't even know why he had let her live.

Eventually Atticus had realised that they needed to slow down. But they had kept moving in a straight line for the rest of that day, albeit at an easier pace. It drove Martha, who was small and young compared to most of her rivals, to dizziness, dehydration and nausea. The cannons that fired periodically during the day had reverberated in her skull too. Not to mention her knowledge that someone would have died for them to sound.

They had ended up at this spot, where Martha had finally collapsed. And after two days and two nights, here they still were.

The branch-formed structure had mostly been Martha's building work. Her father was a builder, so she knew the rudimentary basics of how to create something stable. She'd also got their dinner yesterday using a sling Atticus had grabbed at the start. A small squirrel, not fully grown, that Atticus had skinned and cooked on a fire for the two of them. Martha found herself thinking of how its life had been cut off; long before it was due to die. Just like her own.

Such thoughts were hard to avoid for someone like her. The announcement on the second day of the death of Francis had been a hard blow. He had been rated lower than any other tribute, with the exception of herself. And every death led to an increase, not a decrease, in her worrying about her own mortality.

Atticus had done little to dispel her fears. He had still not given a real reason why he had saved her from Samuel at the start of the Games.

"I don't like Samuel," was all he had said when she'd asked. His tone did not invite further discussion.

And that had been all. There had been little conversation between the two of them over the last few days, just as there had been in training. Atticus had spent most of training sneering in the corner at the favourites and playing with swords and daggers, with the result that Martha had mentally filed him under 'untrustworthy' (along with most of the others). But here he was, protecting her?

There had been a few signs that he regretted doing so. Her earlier attempts at hunting had been a dismal failure, Martha having taken a while to recover from the route march Atticus had taken her on on day one. His response had been a mixture of sighs and glares, before he had taken up his sword and set off himself. When he had returned, drenched in blood, he was carrying a stumpy-looking deer, which he then proceeded to eat himself before tossing Martha a few leftovers.

He had not talked much to her beyond orders, and she barely dared to speak to him. Occasionally she spotted him sitting alone outside the hut, scraping his sword against a rock. It was only at these times that he smiled his toothy smile. Despite the heat, she shivered to think of it. Martha dreaded to imagine what he was thinking.

But so far, he had not killed her, and that was better than she had expected. The two of them hadn't seen anybody else either, surely a product of the distance they had travelled on the first day. And Atticus had collected water as well as weapons at the start. This allowed them the time to construct this makeshift home, and hunt to their heart's content.

Martha's subpar showing in this field so far resulted in Atticus setting off before sunrise that day, searching for another meal. But as the morning ticked on for Martha in the hut, he still didn't return.

Her hunger was beginning to get to her. Such sparse meals were not something Martha was used to, as she'd lived a comfortable enough life in District 6. Unlike many of the tributes, Martha was more used to city life than the countryside. However, her house had been sufficiently on the outskirts to make her have some understanding of hunting. Occasionally, when her father had been short of jobs, they'd gone out hunting, just the two of them. It was a fun experience, and something the young Martha had always looked forward to. It was only recently that she'd begun to realise that they'd only done it when falling on hard times. But she'd give anything to be back there now, and she'd definitely take her father over her current partner.

Her stomach was becoming audible in its complaints about food. She pushed it to the back of her mind. Perhaps, she thought, she should head outside and practice with the sling. Atticus had left it behind; for some reason he preferred to hunt with only a sword. After all, it had worked for him before.

But as Martha pulled herself up, physically feeling her fatigue, she heard something that took her mind off her hunger.

Low voices.

Martha froze. The sounds were close, and getting closer. She felt the panic she had felt at the start of the Games rise in her throat, but could do nothing but strain her ears to try and notice what they were discussing.

"We need to keep moving," the first voice said, in an exhausted tone. "The further we are from where we start the further we are from harm."

A second voice, stronger and with a smoothness that oozed with scorn, cut in. "I don't think you understand what sort of competition we are in. We can't win by hiding in the corner."

"And I also don't want to win by…by hunting down the others!" The first voice was female, Martha thought. "But I'm beginning to think that that was your aim from the start. You were the reason Francis died!"

Martha began to gain hope. The two individuals seemed to be wrapped up in a debate of their own. She was proud of how well she had hidden the structure, after all. As long as Atticus didn't return, they might pass her by.

The smooth voice had paused before responding to the accusations of the first, but now it hit back. "You need me," it said. "You know how to keep yourself alive, but you have _no understanding _of what it would take to win this."

"I have been pulling you along with me from the start. You're injured; you came to _me _for protection. What do you have that I don't?"

"Well, for a start," continued the smooth voice. "I have the ability to recognise when there is someone _listening to our conversation._"

And with a few confident strides, the speaker was right outside Martha's home. She grabbed her small hammer from the ground, but as panic won its battle against calm she realised that she wouldn't be able to fight anyone off. But at least she wouldn't scream. Screaming helped nobody.

A hand tore a hole in the side of the structure. The hole was swiftly widened by a long blade, which turned out to be part of a scythe. Holding it was a tall, stunned-looking older girl; Sadie, one of the more human tributes, Martha had thought. But her hopes of mercy died when she saw the boy behind her. The owner of the smooth voice. Samuel.

"Well, well, well," he said as he saw her, his face breaking into a thin smile. Like Martha, he was surely thinking of his near-murder of her at the start of the Games.

Sadie gave him a glare. She and Martha met each other's gazes. Sadie's eyes were sympathetic. There seemed to be a sadness in what she would have to do. And Martha didn't have the will to make it harder for her. She dropped her hammer.

* * *

About half an hour later, Martha's supplies had been searched with the discovery of a little water and no additional weapons except a sling. Samuel was frustrated by the lack of profit from the discovery of Martha. But what frustrated him more was that she was still alive.

Sadie had ordered Martha to leave the makeshift shelter she had constructed, and had even tied her hands with ropes she had found among her supplies. Samuel had been set to watch over the prisoner while she had headed off to search the nearby area. And she had made it clear to him that there was to be no harming of the captive in any way. Perhaps she still blamed him for Francis' death. Yes, that had been entirely his fault, but that wasn't the point. In any case, before he had time to argue, she had shouldered her scythe and stormed off.

So Samuel was left, crouched beside a tiny hut, with an equally tiny girl sitting opposite him. In his hands was the flail he had taken from his previous victim. He saw a lot of Francis in Martha. She was weak, weak and scared. He should never have been here in the first place. An unfortunate, yes, but he couldn't help that. It would be easier, hell, even _kinder_, to finish her off immediately. But _no_, his holier-than-thou, protector of the weak teammate seemed to have a bottomless pit full of mercy. It was kill or be killed in this arena, what wasn't to get about that?

Samuel considered slitting his prisoner's throat and leaving. But, as much as he was convinced of his superiority, Sadie really did know how to survive. She knew how to tell good berries from bad, and her stealth skills were impressive too. Over the last few days, she had kept him well-fed, fit and healthy, despite the ravages of the arena. She wasn't the sort to turn on him, however much he irked her, and he could certainly make use of her for a good while longer.

Killing Martha would be the last straw in any partnership they held. So, regretfully, he obeyed Sadie and just waited, ignoring Martha as well as he could. Fortunately, Martha ignored him too.

It was not long before Sadie returned, more silently than she had left. She hurried over to Samuel, and spoke in a low voice.

"There's signs of disturbance around this area. More than could be made by one small tribute like her. Did you ask her if she was alone?"

"No," scoffed Samuel. "You told me not to torture-"

"Does she look in the right frame of mind to lie to you?"

Samuel looked at Martha. She looked like she was trying to stop herself from collapsing with nerves.

"Perhaps not," he conceded.

But Sadie had already turned away. She kneeled in front of Martha and seized her by the shoulders, firmly but without malice.

"Are you by yourself here?" she said with force.

Slowly, as if coming out of a daze, Martha shook her head.

"Who else?" demanded Samuel.

"Forget that!" said Sadie. "How many?"

"Oh, just me," came a voice from behind them. Samuel and Sadie turned, bringing their scythe and flail up to defend themselves.

Atticus stood, still a little way away, and he stood casually. But his smile, skin stretched over taught lips, exposed his pointed teeth. And as they looked on in shock, he dropped a small pig from his shoulder and raised his sword in front of his face. It was already spattered with blood.

"So," he sneered. "What are you doing with my partner?"


	13. The Scythe and the Smile

Chapter 13: The Scythe and the Smile

Sadie stood stunned by the home of Martha, her scythe held in front of her. Her partner Samuel, who only a few seconds ago had been sneering at her for not killing the captive, looked just as shocked. All the blood had drained from his face.

Because the mother wolf had returned for her cub. Atticus was back.

Sadie distantly remembered training- how long ago that felt!- when she'd first encountered Atticus. Then, he'd been a bit of a joke. Nasty and violent, yes, but not particularly tall, and exceptionally skinny. The hefty careers and tough survivalists like Joshua, Leonidas and Gwen looked like they'd rip him to pieces. Certainly there was no reason to be afraid of him.

But now the boy was stalking towards them, a blade in his hands and a blood-soaked body. And Sadie was afraid. Not of his sword, but of the confidence emanating from him. Atticus knew he had surprised them, and he appeared certain of his victory.

And Samuel looked to be his first target. While Sadie had been crouched with Martha and still stood just next to the captive, Samuel was far closer to the advancing threat, and couldn't back away fast enough to join her, especially with his limp. He was carrying the flail that had belonged to Francis, but he was tall and thin rather than muscular, and looked highly uncomfortable holding it. He was a sitting duck.

Sadie knew she shouldn't care. These Games were dog-eat-dog, and there was no way she could win with Samuel anyway. That was without considering his rudeness, his casual attitude to violence and his lack of remorse for potentially causing Francis' death. Even if they won in pairs, there were people she'd prefer to win it with; including, of course, the helpless girl tied up at her feet. Perhaps she even had time to get away if she left him to Atticus' mercy.

But she didn't, of course.

As Atticus approached Samuel, sword held ready to bat the flail from his hapless hands, Sadie sprang forwards, holding her scythe, and cried out.

'Wait!'

She swung the scythe round in front of Samuel, striking him in the stomach with the wooden shaft to push him back and away from Atticus' sword. Her enemy's lunge hit air as Samuel stumbled backwards, which pushed Atticus off balance. But Sadie didn't capitalise. She knew how she could fix this without bloodshed.

'We don't want to kill her!' she exclaimed, as Atticus pulled himself upright. 'We only needed food, Martha was safe all along!'

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ragged breaths of Samuel from behind her. Atticus stared Sadie straight in the eyes. She began to think he wasn't going to believe her. But she couldn't step back. That would be an incentive for him to attack. So she stood in place, only a sword-thrust away from her blood-spattered opponent.

Yes, she was afraid. But the shame if she backed off would be too great to bear.

But then a small voice from behind her broke the silence.

'It's true. She didn't let him hurt me.' It was Martha.

Sadie felt the hope rise in her chest. Martha was a hero. Sadie wanted to thank her, but she couldn't break eye contact. And neither did Atticus.

But then his face changed. The intense stare hardened, and the frown on his lips became a smirk. He had made a decision.

Out lashed the sword, faster than Sadie had expected, and it was all she could do to leap backwards away from it. The silence had been broken, and as it did the rainstorm begun anew. Hope of peace was lost.

But, Sadie thought, it was still two against one. He retreated from Atticus' blade, joining the recovering Samuel. Sadie knew that despite his obstructive behaviour, he would have her back. If only because he knew she would have his.

But despite the reach of his flail, he didn't elect to swing it as Atticus attacked. Instead Sadie again had to step forward, scythe held two-handed against her enemy's sword swing. The two weapons met with a thump of wood against metal, quickly followed by a clang as Atticus' sword slid up the scythe to hit the blade.

He pulled it backwards with a snarl, before thrusting again. His moves were easy to predict; generally consisting of a simple thrust straight at her, but that didn't make them easy to stop. And, as used as she was to using a scythe, it wasn't very sharp; nor was it fast to swing. It was all she could do to counter Atticus' stabs at the moment.

Sadie knew that Samuel was behind her, but he hadn't joined the fight yet. Still, if she could force Atticus into advancing towards her, closer to Samuel, then maybe he could flank Atticus! Take him by surprise!

With a grunt, Atticus swung his sword in an arc. It was directed at Sadie's head, but she ducked it and scrambled backwards in a crouch, as if she had given up attacking him. She held the scythe directly above her defensively, the rain battering her face and body through it. Hopefully, he'd think he'd won and charge recklessly.

Atticus fell for it. Gripping his blade, he sprang towards her with a yell. The sword rang against the scythe blade, only a few centimetres from her ear. But despite the jarring in her skull, she was still able to yell.

'Samuel! NOW!'

Nothing happened. Had he fled? She risked a glance behind her, but through the rain she saw only his fuzzy figure standing there. He was watching her. Just watching.

Sadie pulled herself back to her feet in front of Atticus. Before she could get her bearings he was up, and thrusting with his sword. And this time he didn't stop. He stabbed, again and again, and she parried every time, but the strength was sapping from her limbs, and each time it took more and more effort to throw him away from her.

Then he stopped. His final thrust just didn't return. Sadie wondered what had happened. Had he given up? But then she gasped, and she realised it was with pain. The scythe had fallen from her hands.

Sadie looked down at her body. Atticus' sword, which had gathered additional blood, was there. As she looked, it retreated, back to the hand of its owner. She floated to the ground, and fell with a thump on the soaked surface. And it was only then that her brain realised it was dying.

Sadie was distantly aware of voices, but she couldn't take them in. But as her head settled into a comfortable side lying position, she saw something. The only thing she had left to see. The scythe.

It lay next to her, alongside her limp right hand. And as she saw it she remembered. Remembered defending her family from those that hated their poverty. Remembered escaping the starting area with nothing in her hands but a scythe. Remembered using it, but also remembered not using it. She spared Francis. She spared Martha. She had made her family proud. All that was left to do was grab it, and die holding the weapon that wasn't a weapon. With her last ounce of energy, Sadie reached.

But another hand got there first. Simply and clinically, her hand was prised from the shaft. A flail thumped to the ground as the scythe was lifted. Lifted not by the one who had killed her, but by the one who had let her die. But in her last breath, she did not have the strength even to curse his name.

_Samuel._

* * *

Martha had gained hope for the first time when she had seen Atticus. He might be disagreeable, but he could fight! Yet still she hoped that they could talk it out. Sadie had been good to her. But Atticus was fighting _for_ her.

So she was unsure what to think when Sadie finally fell, in a tangle of limbs, to the sound of the cannon. And as she fell, Samuel rose. Leaping from her side, he dropped his cumbersome weapon to seize Sadie's. The limp that had been evident before was entirely gone. And as he smirked with success, it was clear that the fall of his partner hadn't hurt his attitude one bit.

'Why, _thank you,_' he said with a small bow to Atticus. 'I never thought anyone would be able to shut her up!'

Atticus looked thunderous, but he was also panting heavily. Rain, blood and sweat plastered his head and torso. Martha worried what he would have left to face Samuel. She struggled with her ropes for the umpteenth time since Atticus' arrival, but Sadie had tied them tight. She couldn't help her partner.

Atticus spat at Samuel. 'I'll shut you up if you're not careful. I beat you once and I'll beat you again!'

His words were angry, but Martha was perplexed to see that he was…smiling? How was Atticus enjoying this?

Samuel's friendly demeanour did not last. He frowned at Atticus, keeping his distance from the menacing sword.

'I don't think that counted. You took me by surprise!'

'Well then fight me now!' roared Atticus. Samuel looked taken aback; Atticus looked like an ancient savage. His teeth were bared and his sword dripped with fresh blood. 'Or do you need help? You're nothing without her.'

And he gestured to Sadie's body. Samuel looked at it. His expression gave nothing away. Then he looked back up.

'I think I'm better on my own. Teamwork- it always goes sour.'

'Then get out of here,' said Atticus, taking a step towards Samuel.

Samuel ignored him. The sneer was back on his face. 'It'll happen for you too. You can't keep protecting your little girlfriend. Sharing all your hard-earned gains.' He indicated the dead pig that still lay behind Atticus. 'She'll only slow you down in the end.'

Enraged, Atticus charged him, but with a surprising speed Samuel turned and, still carrying the scythe, vanished into the rainstorm. Atticus' pursuit lasted less than five seconds. He dropped his sword and sunk to his knees.

For over a minute he knelt there, his irregular breathing barely audible over the pouring rain. Martha dared say nothing. It appeared she had lived when she'd despaired of it, but with a comrade like Atticus, she never knew.

Finally he got up, just as the weather finally started to ease. His rage was gone, along with the toothy smile that had so unnerved Martha. He was back to his stoic self.

Atticus' blade made short work of her bonds, before he turned and walked over to the pig without another word. She stumbled to her feet. A short while ago, she had never expected to need to use them again. She knew she should be eternally thankful for what Atticus had done for her. But looking at the unmourned, unburied body in front of her, she knew there was something she had to ask.

'Why did you do that?'

He turned back towards her, not understanding.

'Why did you kill her? I told you that she meant me no harm. We barely had anything they wanted anyway!'

His face was hard at that. He strode towards her, until his dark face hovered inches above her own. But all Martha thought was that finally, he was paying attention to her!

'Are you too immature to understand? If I don't kill others then I will die. Just as I murdered that-' he pointed at the pig '-for survival, so I killed that so I could live.' Now he gestured at Sadie. 'If they do not die, then I will die.'

He shook his head, as if in frustration, and headed off. But despite the dripping blood and the unrepentant killing, he didn't scare Martha. Not any more.

'Then what makes me different?'

Atticus stopped, still facing away from her.

'I'm competing too, I guess. I'm not going to win, but if _I _died now, you would be one step closer to victory! If that's all you care about, why am I alive?' Martha was heated now. Who cared about the consequences! She was doomed anyway!

But Atticus didn't attack her. Instead he spoke, in a softer tone than she'd heard him use before.

'You're not much,' said Atticus. 'You're small and pointless. You're not cunning; you can't even outwit the bigger tributes. You were doomed from the start.'

Martha flinched to hear it, though she knew it was true. But Atticus hadn't finished.

'But you're from home. And that's important. I couldn't let that Samuel and those _bastards _from the Career districts kill you. It would have left a bad impression for everyone in District Six. And none of them would ever forgive me.'

Atticus' fists were clenched. He continued. 'We're a team now, whether I like it or not.' And then he finally turned around to look her in the eyes. 'And, sooner or later, people will flock to come and kill you. Which gives me plenty of people to fight!'

With that, Atticus relaxed. He finally gave her a look at his toothy, wolflike smile. Martha had only seen that expression when he was around swords- as well as when he had killed Sadie.

She didn't know whether to be consoled or unnerved. But two things were certain. Firstly, that Atticus only took pleasure from killing things. But secondly, and most importantly, he would protect her until the end. And that, loser as she was surely destined to be, was the first encouraging thought she'd been given since entering the Games.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry there was a long break between updates, I haven't had internet for the past week. If Samuel abandoning Sadie feels too similar to what Aurelia did to Julia, I would encourage you to look at their respective reactions after their comrades' deaths. I always appreciate comments, both positive and negative.**

**Also, this story now has a (shitty) image for it. Its a scruffy sketch of Atticus. I don't know why I drew it. Apologies in advance for those who see it.**


	14. Aurelia Alone Again

**A/N: One of my shortest chapters, but I wanted this to stand on its own. Also my favourite one yet, I think.**

* * *

Chapter 14: Aurelia Alone Again

Aurelia was alone.

It was what she had always planned, before the games. Out of sight and out of mind. She was small and easily forgotten, so the perfect strategy was surely to stay alone.

Julia had changed all that. They had teamed up for one night only, had fought together once, and then she had died. Julia would forever be a postscript in this years Hunger Games; one of the 'other' tributes who didn't quite make it. Somebody the viewers would quickly put behind them. Somebody Aurelia ought to put behind herself too.

Hiding from opponents was easy when you were by yourself, especially when you were Aurelia's size. She doubted any of her opponents had thought about her even once, as they combed the jungles looking for victims. But she had found plenty to eat, she still had her stealth, and most importantly, she still had her swords.

Once, she had seen Sidney. That had been on the second day, the day before he had died. He had been crashing through the forest, making as much noise as possible. Aurelia could have jumped down and backstabbed him with ease. But she didn't; not because she had any sort of sympathy for him (he was a cold-hearted bastard if ever there was one) but simply because she didn't see the point.

What was she fighting for, now? Victory would still be shameful. She had abandoned her teammate, who had saved her life. That was not cruelty; cruelty was accepted as a necessity for victory by most back home. No, that was cowardice and dishonesty. Using stealth was one thing; running away was something else entirely. She wondered what her friends and family must think of her. Such thoughts had been tearing through her head now for over two days.

And as she spotted more and more opponents; first a hurrying, furious looking Dana, then the powerful Sigrun on a cliff, silhouetted against the moon; she wasn't thinking of beating them, but joining them. To be part of something again; something she didn't know she would miss until it was gone.

And so when a figure sprang from a tree and levelled a crossbow at the back of her neck, Aurelia wasn't afraid, nor was she angry. Her swords fell from her hands willingly, and she slowly raised them above her head to show she meant no harm. The lack of a killer blow gave her hope. She turned to face her attacker.

What she saw was fear. Anger too, but mostly fear. A girl of about her age (but considerably taller), her shoulder-length blonde hair ruffled and uncared for, a pack on her back and the delicate-looking bow pointed straight at her. It was Harriet, from District 11.

Despite Aurelia's unarmed state, Harriet didn't lower the bow. The arrowhead now nearly touched Aurelia's chin, but Aurelia knew she couldn't budge. That would be just another sign of cowardice. Besides, if Harriet had wanted to kill her, she would have done it by now.

It was Harriet who first spoke. 'Are you alone?'

'Yes,' Aurelia replied. More alone than she could bear. 'Are you?'

At that question, Harriet stiffened, and briefly looked away. Aurelia could have used her distraction to wrench the crossbow from Harriet's grasp, and so turn the tables. But that wasn't the plan here.

'I am…alone now,' came Harriet's eventual response.

Her gaze was steely, but Aurelia was close enough to see the wetness below her eyes. And then Aurelia remembered Bracken, Harriet's close 'friend', who she'd known back in her district. A good sort, Aurelia remembered, lacking a bit of hardness but very likeable. And attractive, too.

The last time she had seen his handsome face had been last night, in the sky.

So _that _was why Harriet was alone. And why she was angry, and why she was sad. She, too, had lost someone. And though Aurelia was staring up the tip of a crossbow, she knew that Harriet needed help.

'I didn't kill him,' said Aurelia.

'No,' choked out Harriet. 'Gwen did it.'

'The _Games _did it. We're all victims. In…different ways.'

'You! You're doing perfectly well in this place!' And at that outburst Harriet brought the crossbow, which had been slipping down, back up to face Aurelia. Still Aurelia did not step back.

'Do you think anyone is enjoying this? We shouldn't be fighting each other; we should be taking on the Games! What do you say-' and here Aurelia grabbed the crossbow and pulled it down '-we take it on together?'

Harriet hadn't fired. Her game was up. She sighed.

'How did you know I wouldn't fire?'

'I didn't.' admitted Aurelia. 'But if you had…well, I'm not sure I want you on my team anyway.'

Harriet looked torn. But even when Aurelia picked up and sheathed her swords, she didn't try and run. It was Aurelia who was relieved at that. It appeared that Harriet was going to trust her, and trust was what she oh-so-dearly needed. Someone who would rely on her, because god damn it, she was going to be reliable.

'Anyway,' Aurelia experimented with a smile now, 'you wouldn't want to damage your last piece of ammo!'

Harriet frowned. 'How did you know it was my last-'

'Your quiver is empty, and someone as intelligent as you wouldn't leave arrows in your pack when planning an ambush!'

'Very observant,' Harriet conceded, not quite smiling herself as they set off through the trees. The compliment had worked, it seemed.

'I'm from District 3. Being smart is basically a requirement.'

'Smart-ass, more like,' muttered Harriet. Aurelia grinned.

The next few hours were spent as pleasantly as any so far in the Arena. Aurelia stayed as relaxed as possible, in the hope that Harriet would finally let her guard down. Only then would she feel comfortable that her new teammate trusted her.

Foraging for food, Aurelia came upon a small group of green mushrooms, sprouting from the ground like tiny trees.

'Reckon these are edible?' she asked Harriet's opinion, though she was pretty sure they weren't.

Harriet considered it. 'Nah. Look too much like broccoli.' And she made a face.

Aurelia laughed, bringing a true smile to Harriet's face. Yes, beneath the surface they were mourning for their lost partners, but that didn't mean they couldn't enjoy themselves while they lasted.

Shortly before dusk, they settled down for the night, feeling safe in one another's company, beneath a tree with leaves the size of Aurelia's body. Harriet asked her a question.

'Why didn't you kill me?'

'You have a short memory. You were pointing that thing at _me_, remember?'

'Don't pretend like you couldn't have beaten me if you tried. You knew I wouldn't shoot.'

'Then I knew I didn't need to kill you. Having a friend is far more fun.'

Harriet looked surprised at her use of the word, but didn't question it.

'You need sleep.' Aurelia continued. 'I'll take first watch.'

Harriet looked grateful for that. She rolled over.

It was true that Aurelia didn't need to kill Harriet. But she still hadn't divulged the reason why she had taken her on as an ally. The truth was that she reminded her of her first one. Though Julia had been calm and controlled, and Harriet battered and bruised, they still had the same requirement. They needed her help.

Last time, she had refused to become friendly, had refused to share her things, and, worst of all, refused to save Julia's life. This time would be different.

Aurelia looked down at her belt. Harriet was already snoozing. Reaching gently over so as not to disturb her, she tucked one of her swords in next to her ally.

She had abandoned a friend once. She would rather die than do it again.


	15. Marshland Pursuit

Chapter 15: Marshland Pursuit

Dusk was approaching fast on the fourth day of the Games. For many, relief was setting in. Relief that they had lived through one more day of their perilous journey, when others, surely, had not.

Geraint was not one of those people. In fact, he was starting to panic.

Geraint did not find it easy to focus on what needed to be done. His brain was constantly wandering around, looking for something 'deeper' to think about than just where his next meal was coming from. At home, his aimless mind had earned him nothing but shouting and threats of beatings (never followed through on). But here, it had a far worse effect.

In the nightmare that was the Games, there was only one thing his thoughts drifted towards; the future. And unlike at home, there were no sign that such a thing even existed for him.

The sword he had picked up the previous day had boosted his morale, but it hadn't been long before he had begun worrying again. He couldn't remain in the safe embrace of his tree forever; he knew from previous Games that the Gamemakers didn't take kindly to boring tributes that just stayed in one place. So after one last sleepless night, he had jumped down and started off for somewhere new.

It was clear that the sword wasn't what he needed. He needed real bandages, as the leaves were barely lasting an hour now, and the blow to his head had failed to heal. One of his tangled thoughts decided that finding another tribute would be a good idea- maybe they would have supplies. Geraint knew that he could fight with an axe, his father had taught him, and a sword wasn't all that different. Especially with stealth on his side, he could probably take most people.

And another, more honest part of his head said 'But would you?'

Well, of course, he had to. Almost half the tributes were now dead. There was no point giving up now he had got so far, and to get out of this alive, he would have to fight people. He had always wanted to be a hero. And in the Games, the hero was the winner.

But first, he needed to find somewhere to sleep. Another tribute would be useful, but failing that, Geraint could not expose himself to the cold nights in his current condition. He needed to find the deepest part of the forest that he possibly could.

But as he looked around him and saw nothing but marshlands as far as his eyes could see, he cursed his wandering mind that had forgotten to properly direct his feet. The sun was setting, and time was running out.

Geraint trudged another step forward. The ground gave way with a soft _glug,_ causing him to pull out his sopping foot from the depths of a bog. The stench was overwhelming, and he'd given up trying to ward off the flies. There wasn't a tree in sight. With no light to show him the way, as soon as night fell he would be done for. And day was fading fast. Nobody could live here for long.

That was the reason why he dismissed his first sighting as a mirage; his eyes deceiving him. But on the second glimpse his head perked up. On the third he knew that, unlikely as it was, there was another tribute out here. He wasn't alone.

Finally with some purpose on his life, he crouched down in silence, hoping the distant figure would show itself again. It complied, and in fact it appeared to be getting closer. It was fairly short, but not nearly as thin as Geraint had become over the last few days. In fact, in general form and figure it seemed rather healthy. Geraint narrowed his eyes to try and see the face in the half-light. A shock of blond hair over a wide face and small, neat facial features. Matthew.

Geraint didn't know Matthew well. They hadn't seemed to have much in common, and after they had both received high training scores the two of them had had another reason to keep out of each others way. But Geraint had quickly realised that Matthew was wealthy and privileged, on the other side of the class spectrum to Geraint himself. But that didn't mean he was pampered. No, instead he had used his free time to become fit, strong, and, he imagined, ruthless. Geraint had researched his rivals well before the Games began and knew that Matthew was a threat.

But this was a golden opportunity. Matthew, seemingly unaware of Geraint's presence, was heading right towards him. Geraint remembered that he had been wearing spectacles when he had been reaped, but of course he had no such luxuries here. Perhaps that was something he could use to his advantage. And as Matthew got closer and closer, Geraint noticed something else that would help him. Matthew, encumbered by an armful of what looked like berries and heaps of miscellaneous vegetation, was entirely unarmed.

And though Geraint hated these Games and everything they stood for, such an opportunity was too much to bear. He rose like a creature of the swamp, and sword in hand, roared himself forward.

Matthew's sunken eyes almost popped from his head. But the indecision was brief, and as he turned to flee he flung the bundle of plants at Geraint. His charge was slowed as he stumbled on the leaves, but he quickly pulled himself up again, and leaped over a pool before racing after his vanishing quarry.

It was an ungainly chase. Both parties frequently stumbled in the uncertain terrain of the marshlands. But Matthew was not panicking like Geraint had hoped. He hadn't once looked back, and though he had his fair share of slips and splashes, he didn't seem to be getting mired down as much as Geraint was. Instead, he was employing a more cautious style of leaping from tussock to tussock, instead of running full-pelt away from Geraint. And it appeared to be working

Geraint was surprised that Matthew didn't tire, however. His own endurance was his greatest strength, but even he was finding it harder every time he fell to clamber back out of the ooze. But he needed to keep behind Matthew, because the light was fading and there was no way he could spend the night in the swamp.

Up ahead, Matthew plunged into an area of mist, without pausing or looking back. Geraint knew the dangers of following, but he had no choice. So he hurried unhesitantly after Matthew.

On entering the fog he looked around for Matthew. Catching a glimpse off to his left, he raced off in that direction. The flies and midges were less in this area, but the smell remained, and as Geraint tried to catch up he plunged into the deepest pool he had seen yet. Coughing and spluttering, he stumbled out, rubbing his eyes before opening them. Matthew was nowhere to be seen again. But he did see a large boulder. Perhaps, from atop that, he could scan the area for him?

Wearily he clambered onto the rock. It gave him a good vantage point, but there was no sign of Matthew. He was faster than Geraint had expected. But just as he was about to despair, his eyes caught a glimpse of something. Not anything moving, but something distant. And _green._

It was the forest. The tree line. Matthew had led him out. Squinting, he could see a waterfall tumbling from a cliff, and alongside it, a heap of rocks leading down to the swamp. Further off than those was the line of green. And Geraint remembered his original purpose. Matthew was forgotten. He just needed to reach the forest, and then he could sleep. Leaping from the rock he raced off to salvation.

Without even a backwards glance.

* * *

The boulder Geraint had stood on was not as regular as it appeared. On the far side of it was an overhang. Beneath which lay a sword, a spear, a pile of supplies and a very relieved tribute.

Matthew had originally wanted the tributes to come to him, but over the last few days he had become used to a solitary life. By the time he had seen Geraint he had forgotten to always bring his sword with him. He was furious with himself. It would not happen again, he swore it. But at least he had a place of safety, though it was slimy, smelly and infested with frogs and gnats and the occasional alligator. Here in the swamp, he could rest while his rivals died around him. There was no need to go hunting. At least, not yet. Most of them would die on their own.

As if on cue, the trumpets sounded and a face appeared in the sky. Matthew gazed up into the face of his District partner. Sadie had been a good person and had, in the end, done decently in the arena. But Matthew couldn't grieve. She meant no more to him than the rest. And just like her, they would all have to die.

But not for a little while.


	16. Intermission

Intermission

The nature of this story is such that there are not a lot of slower periods where I can pause and take stock of the current situation. So I am just going to take this chapter to briefly summarise the positions and the 'stories so far' of the remaining thirteen characters in the Games.

**Joshua: **The final member of the Careers kicked off the Games by murdering Simon. Since then he's gone through a bit of a breakdown, only to be revitalised now Gregory has allowed him to join up with him and his teammate Brianna. The trio are still together.

**Aurelia: **Her original plan to stay alone was crushed when she met and joined up with the injured career Julia. But they were then attacked by Gregory and Brianna, and, though Aurelia escaped, she refused to aid Julia, leading to her death. Aurelia's regret over the incident later caused her to take Harriet, who had also lost her teammate, on as a partner.

**Matthew:** The upper-class toff of the Games outwitted the strongest tribute, Leonidas, on the first day, leading to Leonidas' death. Since then he has made a home for himself out on the marshlands, where he has remained undisturbed. However, on the fourth day, he was pursued and his hideout almost discovered by District 12's Geraint.

**Atticus and Martha: **The skinny, savage killer and the small vulnerable girl have maintained a partnership since the first day, when Atticus saved Martha from Samuel's attack. She built a shelter for them while he hunted, but their relationship was uneasy until the fourth day, when Atticus again saved Martha from Samuel, killing Samuel's partner Sadie in the process. They remain far out in the forest in their hideout.

**Samuel: **The deceptive boy faked an injury in order to gain Sadie's trust, resulting in the two of them teaming up. After they mugged Francis, Samuel ensured that he would die, against Sadie's wishes. After they discovered Atticus and Martha, he allowed Sadie to be killed before stealing her weapon and leaving, now alone.

**Sigrun: **Killing Nail at the start of the Games made an impression, and she has now mostly been left alone, barring a brief encounter with Dana. Sigrun has used her beloved axe to build herself a stronghold atop a cliff looking down upon the starting area.

**Gregory and Brianna: **The two members of District 9 have been together from the start. After killing Julia on the second day, they are now together with Joshua, against the wishes of Brianna.

**Dana: **Her attempts at murder have mostly been unsuccessful. She managed to knife Grace at the bloodbath but was hit off a cliff by Sigrun during their battle. She has struggled to find any other potential victims.

**Harriet: **Her partnership with Bracken was perhaps the only one that was entirely harmonious. The pair managed to hold off Gwen at the bloodbath, but were unable to do so on the third day, when Bracken elected to fight Gwen in single combat in exchange for Harriet's survival. Harriet has since teamed up with Aurelia, and has vowed to kill Gwen with her one remaining crossbow bolt.

**Geraint: **His head injury at the bloodbath has plagued him for the whole Games, but he has managed to survive and keep away from the other tributes. Discovered a forgotten sword in the starting area, but nearly died out on the marshes on the fourth day. Matthew inadvertently led him towards the safety of the forest.

**Gwen: **With Leonidas' death, she was considered the master fighter of the Games, and so far she has shown it. Killed Emily at the bloodbath, and later on added Bracken to her list of victims, but spared Harriet at his request. All the remaining tributes will fear facing her.

* * *

**A/N: **So far there has tended to be large gaps between character appearances, and some tributes (Dana and Sigrun for example) have been short-changed in the story while others (Harriet especially) have had a lot more 'screen time'.The next two or three chapters are going to be important in terms of finally giving an impression of who the 'main' characters of the story are.


	17. Parental Abandonment

**A/N: Apologies for the delay, internet issues were the cause. You can be assured that those responsible have been sacked and their bodies safely disposed of in the correct waste receptacles.**

* * *

**Chapter 16: Parental Abandonment**

On the day that would define the Games, the sun had only just begun to peak its rays over the horizon. The birds were roosting; the jungle was as quiet as it ever was. The tributes were mostly sleeping. Geraint had escaped the swamp to security in the forest. Matthew remained huddled beneath his rock, oblivious to the world in his exhaustion. Atop her cliff, Sigrun was curled into a ball, her dreams settled and steady. Even the great warrior Gwen was snatching a few hours shut-eye up in a tree.

Gregory was as peaceful as anybody. He had found a comfortable enough patch of ground, and leaning against a tree-root, he had slept well. So when a hard hand gripped him by the collar and shook him awake, he initially threw it off and turned over.

A brazen slap to the cheek alerted him. Gregory was a placid soul, but he liked his sleep and was about to round on the one who disturbed him. Until he saw Brianna, and his anger dissipated. Her finger was on her lips.

Gregory gave her a quizzical look. She glared at him, something she often did, and indicated the sleeping form of Joshua. Their newest teammate always slept deeply, and he hadn't reacted to Brianna awakening Gregory other than to roll around a bit and murmur.

Brianna beckoned Gregory over away from him. The confused boy followed her, but he was slightly sceptical of what she was doing. Over the last few days she had been becoming more and more withdrawn, just as Joshua was becoming more comfortable in the team. The Career was a great hunter and forager, and was always happy to help them out. For Gregory, he was just a good presence to be around.

But Brianna didn't seem to agree. She never said anything, but her frequently scathing looks towards them made Gregory think that she didn't approve of what Joshua was doing. She had barely spoken to either of them the previous day. So Gregory was naturally confused that she wanted to talk now. What did she have to say to him that she couldn't say to Josh?

Gregory followed her a little bit further until they could no longer see him.

'What's going on?' he asked his partner.

Brianna suddenly turned around to face him. She folded her arms, her lips pursed. Gregory recognised the signs.

'Why are you angry with me? We're fine, we're safe! Nothing has gone wrong since Joshua-'

'That's the problem,' hissed Brianna in an undertone.

Gregory was confused again. He hated when Brianna was like this.

'The problem is…that there isn't a problem?'

'No! _Him._'

This didn't help Gregory much. 'You mean Joshua? What harm does he do?'

'What _doesn't_ he do?' Brianna rolled her eyes. 'I know what you're going to say. Everything he does is helpful. But think about who he _is_.'

Gregory was not good at arguing. He struggled to contain his thoughts. 'Careers aren't all bad. Remember the District 1 girl? She had a teammate who she didn't turn on.'

This didn't help matters. 'Don't mention that,' Brianna flinched, perhaps remembering how they had killed Julia. 'This guy is different. He's their big hope. The last Career. He's expected to win, and we're just baggage.'

'Not to Josh. We've helped him. Look how much happier he is with us. He'd never betray us.'

But even this didn't deter Brianna. 'It's not what he wants that matters. We're from District 9, Gregory. Nobody gives a…a _crap _about us.'

Gregory was shocked. He'd never heard Brianna get close to a swear word before. She felt very deeply about this.

'Gregory, we've fought and struggled together for this whole games. But our district- our district is a joke. Nobody much wins from it, but we're not popular underdogs like the 11s and the 12s either. We're worthless; a postscript in the history of Panem. But we've done something here,' and she put her hand on his shoulder. 'We've stayed together; stood up to those that would normally brush us aside.'

Abruptly, Brianna stepped back and away from him. 'But you want to throw all of that away? Become the halfway-competent sidekicks of the great hero of the Games? Because you can be sure that nobody cares about what we've achieved any more. It'll all be about him.'

Gregory struggled to find words to argue. Josh was their friend, he wanted to say. But in the face of her disapproval, he limited himself to saying 'I don't want to hurt him. He doesn't deserve that.'

'Of course not,' said Brianna soothingly. 'But we can't stay with him any more.'

'You mean- abandoning him? He'd be lost- devastated! He's put his trust in us!'

'He's a Career. He can look after himself.' Brianna's voice was firm. 'Besides', and now she took his hand, 'it should be you and me. Partners to the bitter end.'

Gregory's face felt hot, though it was still the cool period before sunrise. His brain was not working well that morning. But he was still able to weigh up the merits of his two partners. Brianna, who had led him to safety and survival for four days straight now; who had been the guiding force alongside him at this perilous time. Or Joshua, a surprisingly generous and hard-working teammate, who could hunt and help with the best, but who he had first spoken to while his blade was at Brianna's throat.

It was no contest.

'Alright,' he said to her, 'but let's leave him all his things, and plenty of food.'

Brianna didn't look fully convinced of this, but eventually agreed. 'It's not as if we can use that bow, and we have swords and spears of our own. And we'll leave him a third of the food. It's only fair.'

The two of them returned to their still snoozing, now former teammate. He didn't move as they gathered up most of the bags and the water flasks, along with Brianna's sword and shield, and Gregory's two spears. The stillness of the forest unnerved Gregory. He knew that he usually slept during this period of time before dawn, so he had no idea what it would be like. But it still felt unusually quiet; peaceful, yes, but he knew that wouldn't last.

It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

'What are you doing? Let's _go_, before he wakes up,' cut in his ally's voice.

Brianna had gathered up her things and was already leaving. Gregory pulled himself out of his thoughts and headed after her, in the dingy silence. Neither spoke, nor looked back. They came to a patch of heavy undergrowth.

Gregory paused briefly, but Brianna plunged unhesitantly through the crowding plants. 'Follow where I go,' she said over her shoulder.

'Of course,' Gregory replied.

'Always.'

* * *

In fact, Gregory and Brianna had only just passed out of sight and earshot, when Joshua's eyes began to open. For a moment the Career's heart raced as he took in where he was, until he remembered. He had companions now. There was no need to be alarmed.

Joshua rolled over again. He had worked hard for the team the previous day, and deserved a bit more of a sleep. But, as he did so, it dawned on him; wherever he looked, there was no sign of his comrades.

Up he sprang, suddenly alert. He could operate on very little sleep if he needed to, such was his training. Still no allies. Both they and their belongings were gone.

Joshua's very first thought was worry. Had they been killed? But then why would they have left him? Captured? But they couldn't have missed his own sleeping form, as he hadn't been especially well concealed.

It took a long time for Joshua to accept what had happened. He could barely believe it. It had come out of nowhere. He thought Gregory at least would have stayed with him. But no, it seemed that the District 9s had decided that partnering with him was a bad idea after all.

For a while he was a broken figure. How could he go on in these Games? The only thing that had kept him going in the murderous Games was the thought that he was doing things for other people. But now he was alone. Would he become self-serving again? Would he dive back into the world of pain and violence that he'd felt to glad to be free of?

Not if he could help it, that was for sure. He had to keep his head up, and carry on as if they were still here. Joshua took stock of the supplies they had left him. His weapons were there, at least. A bow, along with a quiver of arrows (he always made sure to retrieve them when firing so he didn't run out), and his sword. It was short and brutal, not much use for a protracted duel but great for a close-up, dirty brawl, which most fights in the Games ended up as anyway.

Neither weapon had been damaged. Joshua cursed his Career mentality that made him check them first. Food and water was far more important. Hurriedly, he gathered up bow, quiver and sword and hung them about his person, before examining the pack.

At first glance there was plenty left. It seemed like Gregory and Brianna had not taken more food than they had needed, and left him plenty to survive on even if he hadn't had his weapons. But as he kept searching the site, he began to worry. The worry turned to anger. His former allies hadn't meant for him to live after all.

There was no water left. Perhaps it was a genuine accident, perhaps some scheme of Brianna's that Gregory had failed to pick up on. Either way, they had failed to leave any water for the abandoned Joshua. And the patch of forest he was in was almost completely bereft of rivers.

Before he had met the two of them, Joshua hadn't eaten, slept or drank at all. Over the last few days, his health had returned with a vengeance as they shared out their water into another flask for him to use. But now that was gone, and as the sun rose, bringing the heat of the day with it, Joshua felt his throat already becoming parched.

They had never wanted him to live. They could have made it quick, could have murdered him in his sleep, but instead they taunted him, giving him food, weapons, things that would help in every way except from in finding him water.

They had forsaken him, and in the process, had forsaken loyalty. After all he had done for them! In his torrent of emotion, he began to consider whether the security they had given him had all been an elaborate ruse, in order to make this eventual betrayal all the more wounding.

Goodness. Kindness. Generosity. These were the principles that he's tried to live by over the last few days. And they had failed. Perhaps, all along, the District 2 overseers, his trainers, had been right. They had raised him from a friendly little boy into an athletic, strong, killer. He had let his memories of his childhood get in the way of the reality he was in. And now, surely, he would pay for it with his life.

But it was not in the mindset of a Career, the mindset he was forcing himself back into, to give in. There was one thing he wanted to do, more than anything else. Find Gregory and Brianna. And make them pay.

Brianna had sneered at him, had disapproved of him, and had schemed behind his back. She would pay. Gregory had welcomed him, smiled at him, but all the time had hidden a traitorous heart. He would pay.

All he needed to do was find them. But how could he possibly do that, when he had no idea where they had gone? He looked around, red mist clearing so that he could focus on the task ahead. Surely there would be a sign?

There was an explosion off in the distance. Joshua's bow was in his hands in a flash. But all he saw was a bright light, like a flare or a beacon, shooting up from the depths of the jungle. It climbed high above the treetops, before exploding, in a blossoming of red and green. A firework.

And then there came a voice. The voice of the Gamemakers.

* * *

**Author's note: This is one of the more ambiguous chapters morality-wise. The three characters of Joshua, Gregory and Brianna all have their own reasons for believing what they do, but who do you think was right in this situation? Who do you think was wrong? And what will the consequences be for the three of them? Find out...at some unspecified point in the future. Probably this week.**


	18. The First to the Feast

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in this one coming up, my degree is back with a vengeance this week. You may notice some changes- the story has a new title because the original one was just awful. Not hugely confident about the new one either, but there you go. I suck at titles. There's also a new description for the story. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 17: The First to the Feast**

These were the booming words that were said:

'_Tributes! You have struggled long and hard already, and have achieved much. Never before have we had so many of you endure the arena for so long. Even those of you who are destined to fail, take solace in that. _

'_But I'm afraid you're boring us. You just haven't _died_ as you should have done. And so we're inviting you all to a feast at the starting area. Food, supplies, even weapons- you all need something. And the cost of not coming to the feast will be… severe.'_

There was a pause, before the voice made his last comment. _'It starts now. See you there.'_

And collectively, thirteen boys and girls took a deep intake of breath. This was it. The moment they had all been waiting for. However well each tribute was doing, all of them felt that they needed something. And the scarcity of gifts from sponsors in these Games meant that this was the only guaranteed way to get it.

Geraint knew he was not far from the starting point; it was simply a matter of going in the right direction. His throbbing skull didn't make straight lines easy to walk in, however. He needed bandages, and fast.

Matthew too was very close to the starting area, and unlike Geraint he knew which direction to go. Also unlike Geraint, he had a plan.

Gwen was surviving fine on her own, but she saw the Feast as a valuable opportunity to get a few steps closer to her goal of complete elimination of her enemies.

The pairs of Atticus and Martha and Aurelia and Harriet, however, were equally confident in their ability to ward off any foes, thanks to their number advantage. Harriet was keen to gain more bolts for her crossbow as well, while Atticus didn't even try to disguise from Martha his eagerness to scrap with some new foes. And he certainly wasn't going to leave her behind again.

Brianna and Gregory needed food, that was for sure, considering they had just lost their master hunter. They headed to the starting area full of confidence, safe in their health and their partnership.

But for Joshua, the speech was a beacon of hope. It gave him a chance, a chance to get back at the ones who had wronged him. And he wasn't a Career for nothing. All he needed to do was find the way.

For one reason or another, then, everyone was searching for the starting area, full of hope and dread for what they could find there.

* * *

There was one exception. A single tribute who had set up her base far above the ground, giving her as perfect a view as one could get of the clearing and the island at which they had originally fought.

The island where she had killed Nail.

Sigrun did not regret her decision to do so. He was in her way, and she had needed to make a statement. And it seemed to have worked! Apart from the brief encounter with Dana the first day she arrived at her clifftop fort, she had avoided any altercations with her rivals. That was the way she liked it. She didn't have a problem with killing, and was satisfied to see the numbers of rivals go down each day, but it was easier and more comfortable to let others do so.

And up on the cliff, it was peaceful. It was cooler high up than it was in the depths of the forest. The only sounds were the wind in the trees, and the whirring and chattering of birds and squirrels, which she ate when she was hungry and watched when she was not. There was a beauty to it that Sigrun appreciated. She was sure that the smaller people down below did not, so filled as they were with the petty concerns of survival. It was a far better life that was lived alone with nature, and away from the fools who sought to make it about themselves.

A rather improvised, but strongly planted, wooden palisade walled her off from the inner area of the cliff. This left her exposed to the elements, but it was not as if she couldn't take it. Sigrun was strong. If she had to, she would stay up here for the whole games.

But the announcement of the feast had intrigued her. Her axe _was _getting blunter, with all the chopping she'd done to build her base, and she could do with a new one. Food as well; it would save her from hunting for a couple of days, so she could preserve her strength.

And for her, there was no need to search, for as the announcement rang out, a plane shrieked down from the sky, a multitude of soldiers rushing to unload several crates and bags whose contents she couldn't make out, all at the starting area barely a minutes hike from her home. As quickly as they came, the men returned to their vehicle, which rushed away as if it had never been.

Nobody else had seen the supplies for the feast arrive, she was sure of that. Nobody else would be as close as she, either. So Sigrun was not worried as she headed for the starting area. It would be the work of a moment to depart from her safe place, strengthen herself at the feast, and then return in triumph.

To continue waiting it out.

* * *

Geraint's search for the starting place had barely begun when he stumbled upon it. The trees opened out, and before he knew it, he was out in the sun. In a mess of pain and panic, he stumbled back again into darkness. Though it was only a few minutes since the big announcement, it seemed somebody had beaten him to it.

Atop the island in the centre of the clearing loomed the mighty figure of Sigrun. Her broad back faced Geraint. She didn't seem to have lost any of her presence since the start of the Games, apparently having survived well on her own. Unlike with Matthew, there was no opportunity here for Geraint to gain an advantage. Sigrun was strong and carried an axe, which she clearly knew how to use.

Even in his light-headed state, Geraint knew he needed to stay as still as possible. He had seen what had happened to Nail. So he sat and watched as the hefty girl examined the feast.

Rather than an actual table of food, it consisted of heavy-looking wooden crates, seemingly not locked but very large. There were also a few looser bags. These seemed to actually contain food. Geraint hoped, though, above all else, that there were bandages in there.

Sigrun tossed a couple of the sacks aside impatiently, before she took a look at the crates. With a grunt she smote the largest of them with her single-bladed axe, collapsing the lid inwards. Then she wrenched it open with her hands.

Sigrun dropped the axe. It quickly became clear why, as slowly, reverently, she raised a new axe from the box. It was even longer than her old one, but more importantly, it _shone. _Geraint had been taught to fight with his father's axe, and it had been nothing next to this beauty. Double-bladed like a butterfly, elegant yet destructive, it was a weapon that suited the great warrior in the clearing perfectly. Sigrun's old weapon was forgotten. She hefted the new one over her shoulder, grabbed a sack seemingly containing food from the same crate, and made off without a backwards glance.

As soon as Sigrun had left his sight, Geraint knew he had a choice to make. He could head for the centre now, or he could wait for later and go when he knew it was safe. Would Sigrun have stayed out of sight to lie in wait for him? Maybe if she had seen him earlier, but her back had been turned.

No, he had to go now. Every minute his head was worsening. Geraint was sure that he was still losing blood and his concentration was only going to decline as the day went on. His best chance was now. But he had to be quick.

Steeling himself, Geraint burst from cover and sprinted, at his full and considerable pace, towards the island. He reached the creek that surrounded it without interruptions, but he dared not look around. He would be just as dead whether he saw his murderer or not.

Clambering up to the centre, he first noticed that each bag and box had a name pasted onto it. The huge, badly broken one said _Sigrun_, and he spotted the other survivor's names on the others. But where was his own?

Fervent searching found nothing. Geraint was breathing so loud that he doubted he would even hear if he was charged. But suddenly he remembered the two sacks Sigrun had thrown aside. They'd slid down towards the stream, but had stopped short of wetness. The names on them were _Dana_… and _Geraint_.

Ignoring the large, tightly packed bag belonging to Dana, Geraint untied a rope sealing his own, his fingers seizing up as he attempted it. It was hot, not cold, but it was still difficult to use his fingers nowadays, considering how much they had been through since the Games had began.

Eventually he got it open, and peering inside, breathed a sigh of relief. Bandages, lots of them, and they were clean! There were apples too, and a lump of miscellaneous meat. It always astounded him that the Capital could somehow be so generous while putting on such a cruel show. It was exactly what he needed.

Geraint was still undisturbed as he leapt up, bag in hand. But as he turned to flee, he spotted something, out of the corner of his eye. Sigrun's old axe. Racing over to it, it appeared to have been heavily used, but Geraint didn't care. An axe was his weapon of choice, and though the sword he'd found a few days ago did a good enough job, he missed the weight and force of one. It was heavy, but not so heavy he could not wield it.

As he fled the clearing, Geraint's head almost seemed like it was clearing already. He had everything he needed to compete in these Games. Horrific as they were, he couldn't help thinking that he could definitely win them. He had escaped Sigrun, and he had avoided the chaos that was sure to come later that day.

Bring it on.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, another one. Just to say that, yes, I didn't cover everyone's reasons for needing to get to the feast, but all will be revealed over the next few chapters. Specifically, the next three chapters. **


	19. A Flash of Hope

**A/N: Sorry, this was the longest wait for a chapter yet, I've had a lot more work to do in the last couple of weeks. It's not as long as I planned either, as some of the material has been moved to the next chapter. Nevertheless, I'm proud of it, and I hope you'll agree it was worth the wait.**

* * *

**Chapter 19: A Flash of Hope**

It was approaching midday on the most anticipated day of the Games. But for the hordes of viewers, the feast had been a bit of a disappointment so far. Since the arrival of Sigrun and Geraint separately earlier in the day, no other tributes had dared to wade across to the island. Not that the clearing was difficult to find, considering its size and the numerous high trees and other vantage points scattered about. It was beginning to look like, despite the Gamemakers' warnings, some may have decided that getting supplies was not worth it.

But, as the sun climbed higher, and the heat of the day reached its zenith, the viewers perked up their ears. Announcements were made around the country as footsteps were heard in the starting area. Gregory and Brianna had arrived, and a nation held their breath.

Because, unlike the two tributes, they could see what was coming.

* * *

Gregory's misgivings about leaving Joshua had faded as the morning went on. He and Brianna had slipped quickly back into their own routine, based on moving on as quickly as they could if they heard any signs of disturbance. Their fight against Aurelia and Julia on the second day had injured both of them, and so since then both had shied away from direct combat. Gregory felt more comfortable the further away he was from others. Except from Brianna, of course. They would stay together no matter what.

The only downside of dropping down to a twosome again was the loss of their main hunter. Gregory was a fairly capable javelin thrower, but when he'd been on the farm he'd rarely actually killed things with them. They were more for warning or to chase off pests. Stealth was a new concept for him, not to mention Brianna, who'd been a city girl.

That was why the feast had come at a perfect time for them. It was still quite early in the day and Brianna had been convinced that most of their enemies would wait until the light began to fade before making a move. And he didn't think they'd antagonised anyone particularly either; maybe Aurelia, but she couldn't have cared about her teammate that much considering she'd run off and left her.

They were obviously not the team he and Brianna were.

So, though his natural caution was not completely dispelled, Gregory strode into the clearing with a rare confidence. At this stage of the Games, so many teams had broken up, even those from the same District. But Gregory checked behind him, and found Brianna still there. She smiled calmly at him; nothing could settle him better. They were strong and fit; Joshua's hunting abilities had enriched the health of them both. Who would dare take the two of them on?

Predictably, the island where the supplies stood was deserted.

'Nobody about,' he told his partner.

'But they've been,' said Brianna, drawing alongside him. It was true. One crate at least appeared to be open, and several of the bags were strewn about, as if someone had been searching fervently for something.

Gregory's eyes roved the clearing from left to right. There was still no sign. So, undaunted, the pair strode onwards, splashing through the stream, scrambling over rocks, and leaning on their weapons to heave themselves onto the crest of the hill. They had made it.

Brianna had overtaken Gregory, and only had eyes for the large boxes.

'Can we get these open?' she asked.

'I s'pose,' said Gregory, 'But look, this bag has your name on it.' And he lifted a medium sized brown sack, through which he could feel some sort of fruit. They hadn't had anything juicy since they'd arrived.

'Who cares, let's get all we can carry!' snapped Brianna impatiently. She didn't turn to look at him, just continued to struggle with a large box.

Gregory told himself not to be hurt by her tone. He knew she was right. Nobody else was here, and it would be a double blow if they could solve their own problems and cause some for the others too. So he complied, bending down towards the bags and lifting some over his bony shoulders. Catching site of one a little way down the slope, he stepped carefully down the slope, adding it to the many sacks he had looped over his shoulder. His short spears too he stashed in one of the larger ones, leaving him open to carrying more.

Walking back up, Gregory called out to Brianna. 'Hey. We should head off soon, somebody might come.' As he said it, he caught sight of a bag he had missed. Gregory was heavily encumbered already, but he was used to hard work, and was stronger than he looked. One more couldn't hurt.

It took him until he had walked over to it and added it to his luggage to realise Brianna hadn't responded to him. Gregory looked back at her, and gasped.

Slowly, her face frozen with what had to be fear, Brianna was backing away from the centre of the island. She had dropped all her supplies, and her mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Panic overtook Gregory. He looked where she was looking, just beyond the stream surrounding the island. A form, lying prone in the grass. Someone they had failed to see. And as he looked closer, he saw why she was so shocked.

Slowly but definitely, like an avenging spirit, a long, lanky figure unfolded upwards from the ground. His face was thin, but focused, his hair as black as coal, his eyes glittered like jewels. And his arms, steadier than Gregory had ever seen them, held the bow. The bow that he realised now he should never have left with its owner.

Joshua reached for his quiver, and drew out an arrow. He was moving at the deliberate pace that reminded Gregory of an advancing thunderstorm, yet to break above their heads. Gregory's mind whirred. He looked at Brianna, but she was wordless, continuing to back away. She wasn't even looking at him.

He thought about grabbing her and running, but he didn't know if she would let him. His spears were in his bag. Couldn't Joshua be reasoned with?

'Josh, we're sorry. We didn't mean…' began Gregory. But what was there to say? There was no misunderstanding here. Everyone present knew exactly what had happened. The two of them had betrayed their teammates' loyalty, and this was how he chose to react.

Joshua notched the arrow to his quiver with all the efficiency of a trained killer. It was pointed straight at him. Gregory let the bags slide from his shoulders and backed off. He knew he had to flee, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Brianna too, had paused, about twenty feet behind Gregory, her sword and shield hanging limply at her side.

But Joshua had paused. And the silence that had prevailed since Gregory's outburst was broken. Not by words, but by a sound. A meaningless growl emanating from the lips of their attacker. The growl became a snarl, which became a roar, which built until all the rage of what they had done to Joshua came spilling out in a bellow of pure hate. And Joshua turned the bow slightly to the left, before letting it loose.

In a haze Gregory watched it pass by his shoulder. It happened quicker than he could blink, and yet he still went through a confused mess of emotions. First there was fear, and then despair, before the bright spark of hope as it dashed by him, leaving a complete and miraculously unspoilt Gregory in its wake.

The spark lasted no longer than the flame from the striking of flint on steel. Brianna gasped; the first sound she had uttered since they had seen Joshua. Then she fell to the ground, an arrow sunk deeply into her chest.

Gregory's world collapsed into ashes. Thoughtless of Joshua's presence, he ran to his comrade, refusing to believe what had happened.

The amount of blood on Brianna reminded him of what Julia had looked like, before they'd… finished her. Frantically he looked from side to side for something he could use to stop it, but there was nothing. Without thinking he pulled the arrow out, and tearing his shirt from his sweaty shoulders, he stuffed it into the wound.

Choking back tears, he finally turned back to Joshua, who was advancing closer to the hapless pair. What he saw shocked him. Joshua's face looked like the mirror of what his own must be. There was so much pain there. And there was the boy he had become fond of over the last few days.

Gregory stumbled backwards, away from Brianna, his supplies all long dropped, his hands held out in an attempt to placate his former friend. But he had no time to speak. Because this time, the Career did not move slowly. As quick as a snake, Joshua flicked the arrow from its position on his hip to the bow itself, before drawing it back in a single movement of controlled energy, and letting it fly.

Gregory fell backwards. He felt no pain, and before he blacked out, the only thing he could remember thinking was that he was falling away from Brianna.


	20. Convergence

**A/N: This chapter is posted quite soon after the previous one, so check back in case you missed that one. This is one of my longest ones so far, but I added most of the second half while writing it. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter 19: Convergence**

Gregory's first thought when his eyes reopened was shock.

How could he still be alive? Had Joshua relented? But as he tried to pull himself up, all the thought were overridden by pain.

The arrow still stuck out where it had struck him. The right side of his chest was soaked with his own blood, but it appeared to his untrained eye that it had missed his heart. That was the only reason he was somehow alive.

Gregory looked around. There was no sign of Joshua. No other tributes were around either. He was, it seemed, alone.

Only then did he remember Brianna. With a gasp he forced himself upwards, but almost overbalanced forwards again as he did so. Where was she? Where had she gone? Had she abandoned him, thinking he was dead? His head was a mess. He thought about shouting for her, and his eyes scoured the edge of the clearing for signs of her entering the forest again.

It was as he desperately stared around him, tottering in circles like a deranged lunatic, that he tripped over something. Gregory fell heavily, the arrow that remained in his flesh digging in anew. The struggling boy stuffed his fist into his mouth to prevent a yell of pain. Arduously, he turned his body around to see what he had tumbled over.

It was Brianna.

It only took one look to see that she was beyond hope. Gregory's memories came flooding back; the arrow flashing past him, only to strike that which was most dear to him. Crawling close, he touched her arm with his hand, something he'd never dared to do while she lived. But it was cold, cold and without feeling. All the life which had driven her on; which had driven _him_ on, it had all fled. He had never told her what she had meant to him.

An observer would have seen him cradle the bloody form for little more than a minute, but to him it felt an age. Staggering upright, without health or purpose, Gregory headed away. The pain was spreading to his brain, but more significant was the loss of Brianna. All they had worked for was dissipated. He had no need for food; no need for weapons. All he could do was continue. And perhaps, the end would come sooner rather than later.

He could but hope.

* * *

Gregory had no idea he was being watched. Of course he was; it was the apex of the day and the tributes were gathering.

Among them were Atticus and Martha, still together after so many days. To Martha, the bloodbath, where Atticus had saved her life from Samuel, seemed so far away. Samuel had returned a few days later, and it had almost resulted in her death. Atticus had saved her again, returning just in time to kill Samuel's teammate and fend off their foe once more. Since then they'd lived in peace, far away from the other tributes. Atticus had kept them healthy; he had hunted and fished while she kept watch at the hut. So why did she still feel so uneasy in his presence?

They had only just arrived at the clearing. Atticus had immediately pointed out the two apparent corpses on the field, but Martha reminded him that there had only been one cannon that morning. So they had sat in the gloom of the treeline, hoping another tribute would spring what was apparently a trap.

So they were surprised to see Gregory wake up, stumble around in a few confused circles, before collapsing by his teammate in a bloody heap. Martha remembered that the two District 9 tributes had joined together at the very beginning of the games, just like her and Atticus. Clearly, however, they had formed a very different sort of bond.

She looked at her ally now. He was smiling, in apparent glee at the devastation that had been wreaked on his opponents. Martha felt uncertain at this; she had barely talked to the District 9 tributes, but they seemed like nice people! Atticus' mind was twisted.

But she knew this already. It was his inaction that most confused her.

'Atticus,' she whispered. 'Why don't you get him?' Gregory had stood up from the corpse and was now weaving, like a drunken youth, out of the clearing.

'I like to have _some sort _of challenge,' was his reply.

Atticus was in his element when there were people to fight. His surly attitude was replaced by a toothy grin and a tendency to lick his lips. Martha looked away from him. She needed him, but he repulsed her more and more every day. Perhaps, if she was stronger, older or more decisive, she would have run away from him by now. But that wasn't really an option.

'Look!' Atticus broke into the silence with a very loud whisper. He was almost bouncing up and down with excitement. 'Look who it iiiis!'

Martha looked over to the island. There was a new tribute present, crouched low, but unmistakeable in the light of the sun. The lengthy, skinny frame, long nose and thin, bleached hair could only belong to Samuel.

But he had changed. It had only been a day since they had last seen him, but it was clear solitude had cost him badly. His clothes and body were battered and bruised, and his reddened face did not look at all healthy. He carried no supplies with him, save from a long scythe. Martha felt her distaste for him return as she remembered how he had prised it away from his dying ally. Atticus was an unpleasant person to be around, but Samuel would smile and stab you in the back. She was pleased she hadn't teamed up with him.

Samuel reached the river that surrounded the island and splashed across it. He was looking fervently around, but such was the lie of the land, he couldn't see anything on the other side of it. Climbing to the top would be a risk, and Samuel clearly knew it. He hesitated.

'Hey, you,' it was Atticus again. 'I have an idea. Don't move.'

Martha opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak he seized her by the collar and heaved her out into the open. Martha fell heavily onto her knees, in shock. Atticus had mostly ignored her in combat, what did he think she could do now.

Naturally Samuel had seen her. His head had flicked around as soon as she came into view. Atticus remained lurking in the shadows behind her. Or at least, she thought he did. Martha was transfixed, faced with her enemy. For all she knew he had left her.

The pale boy was cautious, but still, he stepped towards her, his eyes darting from side to side, his scythe held out in front of him, ready to strike. Martha fumbled for her sling; she knew it was her best shot of damaging him before he reached her. Adding a stone, she swiftly whirled it, before firing. It whizzed over Samuel's head. Her second stone rolled gently to a stop next to his left foot.

On her third try, her trembling hand released the sling itself. It fluttered away, before landing with a sad thump several feet in front of Martha. Samuel was too close for her to retrieve it. The hammer she carried as a main weapon was in her hands, but it looked small and fragile next to her enemy. Just as she did.

Samuel laughed softly. His steps had slowed, his eyes narrowing as they zoomed in on his target. Like a predator, he had only one thing in mind.

'I know he's there.' Samuel said. 'I can see him. But he's too far back; too far away to save you today. He's decided he doesn't need you anymore. _He's finished with you._'

Martha dared not turn around to see what Atticus was doing. Samuel was too close, and she knew that was all it might take to convince him to strike.

'It's a shame, isn't it? For it to end like this? Abandoned by the only fool who dared take you on as a comrade?' Samuel was now only a few paces in front of her. Martha dared not move, nor even blink. She stared blankly over his shoulder.

'Nobody as useless as you needed to last this long. It could have been over so quickly, so painlessly. But he had to draw it out.'

Samuel drew back the scythe with a smile. 'Shame it had to be this way. No hard feel-'

From behind Samuel, a sword came swinging, tearing into his body and flinging him aside, to collapse in a heap at Martha's feet.

Martha saw white bones staring up at her. Samuel had been torn almost clean in two by a single blow. Most horrifying of all, his thin face still bore the self-satisfied smirk it had born in life. For Samuel, it _had _happened painlessly.

Martha screamed as the cannon sounded. It seemed like the only appropriate thing to do.

'Shut up.' It was her saviour. Short and scruffy, but still strong, Martha recognised Gwen, District 12's star tribute. She had seen her coming behind Samuel, but was still grateful that she had chosen her moment the way she had. She complied with Gwen's request.

'Thank y-' began Martha, but Gwen cut her off with a glare. The older girl raised her gore-splattered sword, and pointed it at Martha. This shut her up.

Atticus hurried to Martha's side, his sword drawn. But Gwen was unmoved. Drawing another sword from her belt, she advanced, holding one in each hand.

'Hey!' yelled Atticus. 'I thought you were helping us!'

'No,' came the response. 'I was just letting her be the distraction, so I could finish off the actual threat. Gwen gestured to the mangled corpse. 'Were you not doing the same?'

This was all the invitation Atticus needed. His blade clashed with Gwen's, Atticus putting all his weight behind the blow. Despite his height advantage, after a brief shoving match, he had to dodge backwards when Gwen's second sword lashed out, nicking his left wrist.

With a yelp Martha's partner drew backwards. For once he did not look happy to be in a fight. Rather, he looked astonished that she had equalled the strength of both his hands with one of her own.

But Martha had something else on her mind. 'I was just the _bait_?'

'You were always fine, she was right there!'

'Oh yeah, and she's so trustworthy!' Martha had been too afraid to confront Atticus before, but seeing him injured somehow gave her resolve. He was as weak as she was, and shouldn't always treat her like this!

'Priorities!' yelled Atticus. Gwen was still advancing on him. A great sweeping blow sent him reeling backwards, and Martha turned to find Gwen right on her. Finally breaking out of her transfixed state, she stumbled backwards, but fell almost immediately.

Facing the ground, her head reeling, Martha felt tears welling up. That was how she was going to go, through a simple trip? Desperately, she forced them back. Feeling no blow on her neck, she turned over on the ground. At least she could face her enemy.

What she saw was a surprise. Gwen's swords had been lowered. It was nothing to do with Atticus, as she couldn't see where he had gone.

Martha was always the sort to try and work out what other people were thinking. But Gwen was impossible to read. She looked like she was furious with somebody, but at the same time, confused. Finally, after a long silence, she snorted with disgust, sheathed her blades, and walked off without a backwards glance.

Martha turned to see Atticus. He was prone on the ground, looking just as incredulous as she did. Gwen climbed onto the central hill, grabbed a pack and, as suddenly as she had arrived, was gone from the clearing.

Martha and Atticus were left alone, with only the bloody corpses of Samuel and Brianna for company. Atticus was the first to get up. Walking over to Samuel's remains, he spat on it, a triumphant look on his face. Martha looked away from him. She felt like she was going to be sick.

'Hey,' Atticus called to her; a rare occurrence. 'I need bandages; do you have any in your bag?'

Of course, that's why he was speaking to her. He needed something. And with the battle over, she didn't have the will left to oppose him. 'I think I do.'

He strode over, but Martha's hurried checks, her partner breathing down her neck, came to naught. 'I think we ran out?'

Atticus' surliness had returned. 'Fine. There'll be some in the Feast.' And without another look at her, he turned and stumped towards the island at the centre of the clearing. Martha followed him, downcast. What else was there for her to do?

'Stop right there, District 6!'

'Oh, not more of you!' came Atticus' petulant voice. But they had dallied too long. Perched atop the island were two girls, one short and curly-haired, the other elegant and blonde. But more importantly, both were holding loaded bows.

Aurelia stepped forward. 'Drop your weapons.' Atticus greeted that with a snarl.

Alongside her, Harriet added, 'Otherwise we fire.'

Even Atticus could see they had no choice. Martha's hammer hit the ground a second before his blade.

Not for the first time that day, Martha was at the mercy of her enemies. By this point, what did it matter?


	21. Blood in the Rain

**A/N: Wow, work got in the way of this one. I also spent a long time deciding what would happen to er...disrupt the occurrences. It was going to be very different in my first draft, but I'm glad I went with what I did. The delay should be shorter next time.**

* * *

**Chapter 20: Blood in the Rain**

Aurelia kept her bow trained on Atticus. 'Harriet, pick up the weapons, would you?'

Wordlessly the blonde tribute lowered her crossbow, and trudged towards the two captives. Atticus gave her the dirtiest of glares, while Martha just stared at her own feet. To Aurelia's mind, it didn't look like a difficult pair to keep under control. They were battered and bruised; clearly, they'd already been through a lot.

This was supported by the bodies that lay around them. They had seen Brianna as they'd arrived at the clearing, and as Aurelia looked around she saw another, even bloodier form. She had no particular desire to find out its identity.

Nor did she especially want to add to the corpses. Atticus was a shifty looking fellow, but he'd clearly taken the otherwise helpless Martha under his wing, which was a point in his favour. _Better than she'd done_, Aurelia found herself thinking.

She cleared her head. Julia had died a long time ago, it seemed. And Aurelia had learned from it. Disloyalty was never worth it; not for what it did to your conscience. And these two had surrendered to them. There was no need to spill any more blood.

Harriet returned to the centre of the island now. She had sheathed Atticus' blade and added Martha's hammer to her pack.

'Shall I get our feast stuff now?' asked Aurelia's new partner.

'Sure thing. I have this under control.' Harriet was very easy to talk to. Plenty of common sense, only occasionally obscured by emotion. This usually took the form of rage; against the games, and even more frequently towards the tribute who had killed her partner; Gwen. Aurelia was pleased that there was no Gwen around at the moment. She didn't want Harriet to get…carried away. Especially as things were going so swimmingly.

* * *

Far away, the Gamemakers were watching. And they weren't happy.

Already, opinions were trickling in from the Capital's citizens. The Feast had regressed, they said. The fall of the Careers was, in popular opinion, hurting these Games. There were still eleven tributes surviving, and at such a late stage, too. And this little bit of peace was just the latest development in a Hunger Games that hadn't lived up to expectations.

Only two deaths out of eleven in the Feast? That was unprecedented! The Gamemakers agreed. And decisions were made. Things were altogether too sunny for the four tributes in the centre.

It was time to gather the rainclouds.

* * *

While Harriet sifted through the bags on the top of the island, Aurelia stood a few feet away, keeping a wary eye on their captives. But she could see in their faces that they were done. Even the surly Atticus had stopped glaring at her, and had slumped to the ground in clear exhaustion. They would have no trouble from these two.

But Aurelia was jerked back from her thoughts by the sudden grumbling sound of thunder. It was a sound she'd heard many times before in the rainy environment that was now their home, but never without warning like this! Turning away from the District 6 tributes, she stared up into the sky in surprise. What she saw was against all probability. Storm clouds were gathering at an unheard of pace, charging from every corner of the murky sky. Their destination seemed to be right over their heads.

The clouds were not behaving in a natural way, but Aurelia was quickly able to deduce what was going on. They were not behaving naturally because they were not natural. She knew perfectly well what power the Gamemakers could wield here. It could only be they who had called this unnatural tempest down upon them. The clouds were gathering over them, and there was nothing she could do but deduce their intentions as fast as she could.

'Aurelia! Look at this!'

There was genuine excitement in Harriet's voice. Turning, Aurelia saw her teammate had walked still further away from her. A chest lay at Harriet's feet, apparently prised open, and she was waving an iron spear high in the air, a rare satisfied smile creeping onto her face. It was her preferred weapon along with the crossbow she carried.

But, as the clouds converged above her head, Aurelia did not share her optimism. The thunderstorm was unnatural, but that didn't mean it wouldn't obey certain rules of the world.

Aurelia's brain processed those rules at a blinding speed, and as the rain tumbled down to drench her hair, she yelled at her partner with all her strength.

'DROP IT!'

Harriet looked at her, her expression twisted in a confused manner, before she too understood her panic. She let go of the iron javelin like it was a red-hot poker.

A fraction of a second later, the lightning sliced down, sparking with a blinding light off of the metal, sending it spinning away from Harriet. Aurelia's teammate was left shaken but unharmed, as the thunder rumbled its frustration over their heads. Aurelia breathed out again.

It was only a second's relief. From the murkiness of the rain and the fog, a skinny figure sprang, newly revitalised, and snatched up the hissing spear from its resting place. Aurelia could only stand and stare as Atticus flung himself at Harriet's unsuspecting form.

Tumbling over and over upon the hill, Atticus and Harriet were impossible to make out in the conditions, but Aurelia ran to them anyway. She had wanted to avoid conflict, but Atticus was forcing her hand. But in her panic, she had let her bow fall to the ground.

What she saw of Atticus and Harriet was desperation. Harriet was struggling for the grip of Atticus' sword, now hanging at her belt. But her opponent, despite his battered condition, appeared to have the advantage, as he was already armed.

As she fretted over what to do, Aurelia was blinded by a second lightning strike. Her sight cleared to see Harriet staggering backwards. The spear was stuck in her leg, and Atticus was holding his reclaimed blade out in triumph. Screaming like a deranged beast, he ran to his quarry.

Aurelia, though, was only thinking of one person. Not Atticus. Not even Harriet. Another girl, who had fought with her, who had relied on her, had been struck in the leg by a spear, before she was ended for good.

And that was why Aurelia sprang from the shadows, straight at Atticus. She carried no blade, no bow, no spear, just her own bare hands against the boy in front of her, the boy who to her represented not just himself but all the injustices of the Games. And Aurelia was going to fight them all.

There could only be one winner.

Almost nonchalantly, Atticus' sword was thrust forward, then back, then back in again, to seal the deal. Aurelia was stopped in her tracks. Delicately, almost peacefully, she felt herself fall backwards. She expected to stop at the ground, but instead, she just kept falling. But it wasn't painful. Aurelia had redeemed herself. She was more at peace than she had been since the first day of the games.

* * *

Atticus shook his blade, trying to dislodge it. The bloody sword wouldn't get out of the bloody body! Finally, he yanked it out to the sound of another cannon, pleased to see it coated with his victims gore. It had been so easy! But he was going after the other one now. Now, where had Harriet gone?

Looking around fervently, he spotted a blonde head scrambling over the stream that surrounded his island. She seemed to carry nothing except from the crossbow she had arrived with, but was moving at a decent speed for someone who had been stabbed in the leg. Collecting the last of his diminished energy, Atticus hurried off in her direction. One more kill, and then he would get back to babysitting Martha.

A flash of lightning disrupted his chase. It almost struck him dead on, and caused him to slip and splash in the water. Cursing inwardly and outwardly, he got back up to carry on, but only succeeded in falling forward onto his face. Atticus choked on the water, and came up spluttering and furious.

But looking around for Harriet, he was forced to realise that she was lost. He had fought long and hard today; faced Samuel, his hated foe; then the surprising strength of Gwen, and then finally both the girls who had taken him prisoner. He was done. It was time to get out of here before this storm took him apart. The wind and rain battering his grimy face, he stumped back up onto the peak of the hill. But despite his pain, he felt triumph. All those who had once mocked his ambitions, who had opposed him today, all of them had fled in the face of his ferocity and drive. Atticus was alone in the clearing. He had won.

But wait…

He was alone in the clearing. Where was Martha?

She had been at his side before the thunderstorm had struck, but upon seeing his opportunity he had forgotten her. Of course he had; she had been perfectly safe, so of course he would take the opportunity to kill their captors. So why would she bloody well leave just like that?

He sighed. For some reason he had taken on the responsibility of keeping Martha alive as long as he could. His district saw him as a fool; he'd heard it before he's even left. A brutal idiot. Well, he had showed them, he had kept their little darling safe, as hard as it had been. The last scrap of where he had come from had been preserved, and he wasn't going to stop now.

But on the other hand…he _had _done it, hadn't he? She was alive. But so was he, and there was a point at which he would have to leave her anyway. Why not now?

After all, he had never expected her to last this long anyway. He had done his duty. She was likely nearby, but he didn't have time to search. It was time to let Martha go.

The decision being made filled him with satisfaction, as did the bloody body he had to step over to get back to the centre of the island. Grabbing random bag from the sopping pile of provisions, Atticus set off towards the future.

He was bruised and exhausted, wet and wounded, but he held his head high. A weight had left his shoulders, and a deadweight had left his companionship. It was time to finish this _his _way.

With blood.

* * *

**A/N: Damn it, I just killed off the character who gradually became my favourite. But I'm really happy with her arc. Let me know whether you agree! Also, someone commented that I made you like the 'enemies', so I was wondering who you considered an enemy and who a hero? I feel a lot of them could be either. **


	22. The Leftovers

**A/N: OK, a bit of a breather to end the Feast chapters. Hope you enjoy it and haven't forgotten about the people in this chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 21: The Leftovers**

The sun set over the field of blood.

The blistering fury of the storm had, it had turned out, been quick to clear. Once its job was done, it had moved on. But it had left no figures still standing in the clearing. The day had claimed the lives of Brianna; an arrow protruding from her chest, Samuel; cleaved from head to toe by Gwen's blade, and Aurelia; skewered by Atticus' reclaimed blade. The others had scattered in all directions. The day's events had torn apart all the remaining partnerships. It was every man for himself.

The viewers and the Gamemakers had seen nothing of interest in the clearing for several hours now. It seemed that the day was over. But there were still two tributes unaccounted for; two tributes who had made themselves easy to forget. But surely neither of them would dare go without the essentials of the Feast?

Matthew, the first of them, certainly didn't. His swampland home was surprisingly close to the starting area, and even now he lurked in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. He'd been here since the morning, and had seen both Sigrun and Geraint sneak in and nab what they needed. Matthew's encounter with Geraint the day before had made him wary of the athletic District 12 boy, and Sigrun's physical prowess and supremely healthy condition made taking her on an unattractive idea. Matthew was naturally cautious, and he liked taking people by surprise rather than charging them head on. So he allowed them to come and go as they pleased, and settled himself in to wait for them to go.

But as the day had progressed and more and more tributes began to appear, Matthew had became still warier. Joshua's cold takedown of Gregory and Brianna had impressed him and he judged that it would be foolhardy to attack at that time, as he didn't know how watchful the Career would be. Matthew couldn't be having with all this in-your-face nonsense. It was absurd the way some tributes had acted in previous years- they were basically asking for death.

And just as he was thinking it, a perfect example appeared in the form of Samuel. He had clearly been walking straight into a trap when he was walking towards Martha, and so it proved. Matthew couldn't bring himself to care. Samuel had fancied himself cool and calculating, but his death had just proved that his was an emotional, idiotic grade of sadism. Matthew felt confident in saying that only he himself was devoid of grudges; of petty feelings towards the others.

Atticus was an even more extreme example of this. The skinny young man was clearly full of anger, as well as a deep love of killing others, as proved by how he had revelled in Aurelia's death. Matthew's distaste for him had nothing to do with his actions, though; just the joy he took in them. It was a very low-class sort of behaviour, Matthew found himself reluctantly thinking. They weren't far from the bottom themselves, but all they did was excrete upon those lower than them. Well, it was true. At least Matthew was above such stuff.

But now, the storm was clear. Atticus, Martha and Harriet had raced off in different directions, but none had passed near him. Perhaps this was his time to strike; to seize what was his. He knew what he needed; resources to survive in the harsh environment of the marshes. But Matthew, unlike the others, had done his research before entering the arena. He knew exactly who was gone, and who was left. All those who remained had attended the Feast, except himself. And one other.

Dana. He hadn't seen her since entering the arena, but he hadn't seen many people yet, at least not until today. Now, however, he had valuable intelligence on how they were all doing- except for one. Matthew was a bit of a perfectionist. Why not wait, and see whether Dana arrived? And perhaps, she _was _one who could be ambushed.

The decision was easy. Matthew always preferred to wait as long as he needed to before committing to something. He settled down, and continued to watch

Even if Dana waited until sunset, he would still be here. Patience, as all the writers said, was a virtue. Not that she would know; she was just a little thief. The lowest of the low. He sneered as he thought it. He doubted anyone would miss her.

The sun continued to dip lower and lower on the horizon. For Matthew's poor eyesight, this was a major problem. He found himself missing his spectacles, but forced himself to forget about them. They were one of many home conveniences he would have to do without here. They had lasted less than a day in the arena.

But the lack of them nearly caused disaster. As Matthew's eyes searched the clearing in the fading light, he nearly missed a small form. It darted across the open space like a rat under a streetlamp. An appropriate simile, thought Matthew wryly, considering who it surely was.

The figure had quickly closed the gap to the island, and was equally quick to start rootling through the (now very sparse) supplies. Matthew knew he had to act fast. In his hands he carried the spear of Leonidas and the sword he had owned since the first day. Breaking with his usual subtlety, he breached from the jungle and raced towards his quarry.

The figure looked up, and even with his poor vision that skinny face was unmistakeable. Dana did not cry out. She just turned and scurried down the slope of the island.

Matthew was not just going to let her crawl back to her hole. He released all of his pent-up energy in one sprint, and was swiftly atop the mound. And standing amidst the ruin of the Feast and his fellow tributes, he cast the spear.

It flew straight and true, just like in the old epics. The fleeing Dana looked back and jerked sideways to try and avoid it. But Matthew's trajectory had been too perfect, he was pleased to see. The point of the weapon caught her in the arm. And now, as the blood flowed, Dana shrieked.

Unable to stifle a grin in the moment of his triumph, Matthew gripped his sword in both hands and closed in for the kill. But Dana was not out of surprises. She pulled the weapon from her and cast it aside. And then she bared her teeth, and _advanced_.

It was an unexpected move, but what surprised him more was the girl's condition. When he'd seen her at the start of the Games, Dana had been small, thin and pale, with little femininity to her besides her long, dust-coloured hair. Now, however, her hair had been hacked off to the skull, presumably by herself. The simple clothing they all wore was so battered as to appear shredded on Dana. Large areas of greyish skin were exposed all over her body, and she crouched in a low-slung, beastlike pose instead of standing upright. Had Matthew not known it already, he'd not have been able to tell either her age or her gender for certain. The only thing that remained the same was her thin-lipped face, which now glared wordlessly at him.

Matthew was stunned, but he broke out of his reverie when he saw her palms. Dana was armed with a white knife in each hand, and despite her dishevelled state and still-bleeding arm, the weapons looked sharp and ready to kill.

With an explosion of energy, Dana leaped towards him. An instinctual lashing out of his blade sent her spinning away, but it had failed to make contact. Dana gathered herself before springing again.

This time Matthew had the foresight to step sideways as she did so, but nevertheless he knife in her right hand made contact with his wrist. A sharp pain erupted there, and he pulled it away with a yelp. He had been cut, but the wound was not deep.

In contrast, Dana was clearly suffering from what had happened to her left arm. It hung limply at her side, bleeding profusely, and she now held only a single knife. She charged again. But this time Matthew was ready. He stepped to one side again, and with his own hand seized Dana's wounded arm. Then he twisted, hard.

Dana went to ground, screaming, but was held tight in his vice-like grip. She lunged upward with her knife, only for it to be callously batted away by Matthew's sword. She was in his mercy. He raised his sword for the killer blow.

But suddenly there was a third knife, drawn apparently out of nowhere. Dana thrust it up, but instead of trying to reach Matthew himself, she aimed for her own arm. A quick sawing motion, and her hand was detached. Dana was free, and she stumbled at full pelt towards the jungle, trailing blood. Soon she was lost to Matthew's sight.

Even if he had been able to chase her, he wouldn't have. What sort of savage must a person become, that makes them willing to mutilate themselves so thoughtlessly? Dana had not hesitated for a moment to cut into her own arm. Even Matthew, who prided himself on his unflinching attitude to death, was somewhat sickened. He dropped the hand and forearm that he still held. It fell with a wet squelch to the ground.

Matthew didn't spare Dana another thought. It was time to get his supplies and return to the swamp, before it became too dark to see anything at all.

* * *

The Feast was over. Death had prevailed, but not only that. It had also been a day in which partnerships were broken. Atticus had abandoned Martha. Gregory and Harriet were alone. A dark day for them, but a great one for the Gamemakers.

The faces flashed in the sky. Brianna, Samuel, Aurelia. There had only been three deaths on the devastating day. But the damage that had been done on the fifth day of the Games covered far more than just those three. It would have implications on the future of the remaining tributes as well.

* * *

**A/N: So, big question. I think we are definitely over halfway through the story. Who do you think is going to win?**


	23. An Altar of Stone

**A/N: Sorry, this chapter is a bit short, but this scene had to be its own chapter. It may also be a bit more disgusting than usual, but not by much.**

* * *

Chapter 22: An Altar of Stone

Failure at the Feast had consequences for all. Even the tributes that had not lost their lives on the fifth day of the Games would now be suffering had they failed to secure the supplies they needed.

One of those in trouble was Gregory. He had not been able to sleep the previous night, his thoughts twisted and broken. His brain was not working as it should; he was unable to keep a single purpose for long. It almost felt like he was dreaming, by the inability to grasp an idea sufficiently enough to follow through. But then he would stumble, and fall upon the ground, and it would come through to him that what he was experiencing was very, very real.

Of course, he thought about Brianna a lot. She had guided him; let him to where he was now- the final ten? Eleven? He couldn't do the maths well enough- not that he would be much better at full health. _Brianna could have done it_, he thought.

Deep down there were nagging thoughts. Thoughts of the future, of doing something about the pain he was in. But he rejected them. They were not important, right now.

Rudderless, like an ant without a colony, Gregory weaved his way through the crowded trunks. Where was he going? He didn't know. Why didn't he just stop? Well, as long as he kept walking, he could ignore the dark roads his mind was travelling down, and focus on the uneven, muddy, but oh so much more comfortable tracks his feet were on.

After all, he was nothing but a simple farm boy. It wasn't his job to think for himself.

There was a sudden lurching in his bowels. Gregory knew he needed to relieve himself, but he couldn't see the point. But finally, the drunken, stumbling young man came to a halt- by tripping and falling flat on his stomach. The ground he fell on was rocky. And the pain in his body exploded once more.

Because the thing he had really been pushing to the back of his mind, the thing that he had been walking to get away from, was that he knew he was doomed. The arrow that Joshua had shot him with had dug deeper than he'd realised, and as soon as he pulled it from himself he had realised the truth. Gregory was familiar with animals, and had seen the symptoms before. On the surface it appeared to be a stable wound, but the internal bleeding was serious. He wouldn't make it another night.

And as he lay there, staring at the grey, uncompromising ground, he knew that this was where he would lie. Gregory's tired old bones were finished. Brianna- still his guiding light, whatever she had thought of him- was gone, his weapons and supplies had deserted him, and his body was killing itself from within. All he could do now was lie here and ignore the pain, as he had done for the past several hours.

Gregory lay there for over half an hour. There was no sign of life except for the rise and fall of his ribcage. The pain was on the rise, however. It clouded his vision, his hearing, his mind. He couldn't ignore it forever.

And despite his weakness for the last day of his life- the last week of his life, really- Gregory finally summoned his strength. There was very little left. All he could do was raise his head from the rock.

He expected to see nothing. He hoped there might be a nearby cliff he could crawl off, a river to drown in, or even a vulture which might ease his pain. He did not expect to see a demon.

At least, that's what his hazy vision thought it saw. Colourless, without much clothing to speak of, it crouched in a tree. Eyes, more alive than the rest of the corpselike figure, gleamed from its skull. Seeing Gregory staring, it sprang down from the tree, and scrambled over to look at him.

Up close, it was equally unnerving. Gregory's sight was badly clouded, but it appeared to wear the remnants of the tribute outfit. One of its limbs ended in a bloody stump. But its eyes, staring from a pinched face, still drew his gaze. It looked at him for a second. Then, from somewhere in the folds of material clinging to its body, it drew a knife.

Gregory's energy was continuing to sap, but he still forced himself not to cry out. Instead, he channelled all the strength (and all the self-restraint) that he had, into one, quiet word.

'Please.'

His companion understood. Gregory had no time to thank the figure for its kindness, as it wasted no time in thrusting the knife deep into his throat, and lashing it across. His life was snuffed out. His pain fled alongside it.

* * *

'Pathetic,' said Dana to herself.

The cannon fired as she sheathed the knife with a noise of disgust. Not because of the blood that now coated it, but because of the need to use it. What a measly waste of meat that boy had been. Reduced to a crumbling wreck, his independence gone with his bodily functions. What's more, he had discharged his bowels as he died. A worthless lump of flesh- that was what he had been reduced to.

Despite her wild appearance, Dana was still well in command of herself. She had always been…practical. Pragmatic, that was the word. Who cared what others thought? She was trying to kill them after all. So she'd hacked off her hair, started walking with all her limbs (a useful skill in the jungle) and had even sliced her hand off to escape her previous enemy. This had the added use of striking fear and confusion into the hearts of her enemies- that is, everyone.

Unfortunately, it had not worked. She had killed a girl in the bloodbath on the first day, but since then her victims had been ready for her. She had not been allowed to use stealth to her advantage, as the powerful opponents she had faced had been prepared.

And now she had failed to gain anything from the Feast. In her escape, Dana had left behind all of her supplies, along with her left hand. And her arm had not fully stopped bleeding since.

Dana was in pain. She was light-headed from loss of blood. And as she looked down upon the dead tribute in front of her, she saw that, perhaps, they were not so different. Both of them had clung to life, done everything they could to keep going. But it came at a price. Gregory had lost his ally, his mind, and, finally, his dignity. Dana had lost her arm, and everything she needed to survive in this baking forest. She had nothing; nothing but a knife.

And it was then that she saw the answer. If Dana continued like she was, she would end up like he had. Pathetic, in constant pain and suffering, unable to help herself, and finally forced to beg for death. Dana would not allow that to happen. She had too much pride in herself to stoop so low. And there was a way to prevent it.

She raised herself upright, leaving her natural crouched posture. Who cared if anyone saw her? Onto the rock she stepped, the rock that the body of Gregory still slumped atop. It looked like a sacrifice, blood and faeces congealing on an altar of stone. But Dana did not care that she stepped in the muck.

She plunged her knife into her own chest. A gasp escaped her lips, the first sign of pain she'd given since the Games began. But her hands kept a tight hold on the blade. She dug it deeper, deeper, until she could do so no more. One final exhalation, and then she fell, limply, atop the other body. A second cannon fired.

Gregory and Dana, who knew nothing of one another in life, were together in death. The sacrifice was complete.


	24. The Deceptive Cannon

**A/N: Sorry for the stupidly long hiatus. The Christmas period was involved a lot of work. And this chapter was, by a huge margin, the hardest so far. You'll see why.**

* * *

Chapter 23: The Deceptive Cannon

The thunder of the cannons shook Martha to the bone. Two more tributes were down, but that didn't give her much confidence.

Her trembling was all in fear, as the heat of the jungle was causing her to sweat, not shiver. She was ill; the worst she'd been. And she was beginning to think that her time was up.

Recalling the feast, Martha did not understand exactly what had happened. The two girls who had captured them, Aurelia and Harriet, had seemed like good people, just like Sadie had when she'd been captured by her. Martha had had no intention of fighting them. But as soon as the storm had unexpectedly struck, Atticus had launched himself at them.

Martha hadn't the strength or the will to get involved. She had never tried to be the spirited underdog; she was small and weak in mind as well as in body. Perhaps she could have helped him as he wrestled with the two indistinct figures. But she was no killer. That had been Atticus' job.

One of the girls had been killed, the other fled. Martha could not tell which, as she was already edging away. She was finished, finished with clinging to life with a psycho. Atticus would do fine without her. He wouldn't care. So before the storm was over, she had left the clearing, with nothing on her except the clothes she wore.

Martha couldn't bring herself to regret the decision. The night after the Feast had been spent in a careless sleep, the following day in a casual wander. Perhaps she would find a new ally, a better ally. Or maybe she would starve to death or trip and fall from a cliff. Whatever.

Without Atticus, life was short. But life was easy.

Martha had no weapons or food. She did not bother to eat, and only drank from a single, dirty river. It made her throw up so she stopped. Oh well. She wasn't going to live much longer anyway.

It was late in the day, when her stomach began to cry out for food, that she finally decided to find something to eat. Poisoning was a better way to go than starvation, after all. And just at that moment, she caught sight of a tree, off in the distance. Though it wasn't particularly tall, it was visible regardless. And dangling from it were the ripest apples she'd ever seen. They looked like every child's ideal of what an apple was like- red, round and juicy. Easily the most delicious-looking food she'd seen yet.

Well, she had one last thing to aim for. Martha stopped her brain from thinking too hard about them. If they were as good to eat as they looked, then it would be a good final taste.

But as she set off towards the tree, she became more and more confused. She could still see it, off in the distance, but she didn't appear to be getting any closer. In fact, she could have sworn that where she stood now was where it had originally been.

Too hot and exhausted to think, she trundled on. After ten more minutes she began to think of how strange it was that the tree was still visible. There were trees crowding her and it, and it looked nothing like the trees around it. Was the heat playing tricks on her? Perhaps, had she been in a better condition, she would have stopped. The old Martha, despite how weak she had convinced herself she was, would have certainly stopped. But the new Martha didn't care. He knew her tale was coming to an end.

And just as she thought all of that, the tree finally vanished. As thick vegetation loomed up before her, it snapped from her view like a projection. Martha shook her head, but still all she saw was the familiar greenness of the forest.

Martha knew she had to push on regardless. The tree was somewhere behind the bushes ahead of her. It had finally vanished from view, so perhaps that meant she was nearing it. So into the undergrowth she plunged.

She had taken barely ten steps into the thick greenness, pushing aside twigs and leaves with her hands, before a hand grabbed her by the throat. She felt a sharp blade in front of her chest.

'Now?' came a deep voice at her ear. It was unfamiliar.

'No, not this one. She's young, I want her reassured first.'

Martha had forgotten how to speak. She racked her brain, but she couldn't work out who it could be. She didn't recognise their voices, or the huge blade that dangled threateningly in front of her. She could feel the mass of someone behind her, the same someone who held her throat and held the sword, but there were clearly two boys- or men. Who could they be?

'It'll just make the end worse, for both of you,' urged the deep voice.

But it was clear the other one had the authority. 'Bring her to the cave. That's an order.' The second statement seemed to end the protests. Martha found herself hauled up, and dragged along a passageway that had been made in the undergrowth. The two men walked behind her.

Because they were men, that much was clear. Certainly not tributes. The tree had been too good to be true, and Martha had been tricked. The Capital, perhaps? But what would they want with her? All she knew was that she was not dead, and despite her resignation to her fate earlier that day, she found herself quite comfortable with that fact.

After a surprisingly short walk, they came to a stone wall. The man behind her spoke again.

'Duck, it's low.'

Martha ducked into a small stone hole in the rock. The man still held her, but his sword had retreated and it wasn't a tight grip. She began to gain hope. Was she being rescued?

Opening out in front off her was a cavern. It was not large, and contained only a fire and a large heap of pots and boxes. Standing next to the fire was a small man. He had pointed features and red hair. Martha had never seen him before. He was watching a lump of cooking meat, but as they entered he rose and looked at them.

'Church, did you get her?'

The leader of Martha's captors responded with a simple 'Yes.' But the new man had already stopped short. He was glaring down at Martha.

'Seriously, Church? Why? Couldn't you have just done the job for once?'

Martha was dropped onto the ground, and she shuffled backwards into the corner of the cave. It was then that she finally got a proper look at her captors. The one who had held her was a great muscular man, the sort she might have sighed to look at in happier times. He had dark hair, chiselled features, and an enormous broadsword that was slung over his back. But as soon as he dropped her, the behemoth stumped over to the corner. It was the other man that was the focus of the cave-dweller's ire.

Church, as he had been named, was very tall, more so than his companion, but considerably thinner. He appeared young enough, but his light hair had a grey tinge to it. And though he looked like he could snap with a single blow of the broadsword, he faced down the ginger man with calmness and confidence.

'She's the youngest yet. We can't just slit their throats and throw them from the cliff!'

'And why on earth not? She wouldn't know what happened! We've been through this, Church; you can't treat these people like-'

'Like people?' interjected Church. This shut the small man up for a moment.

'I want to talk to her,' continued Church. 'She has the right to know why this is happening, and to be reassured on a few things.'

The red haired man wasn't done. 'You can't let sentiment get in the way of the job, or you'll get us all killed!'

'There's no way they will find out. They'll just think it took a while to carry the corpse to the cliff. Now give me a moment, Harriotts, and then everything will be as you wish.'

Martha was done listening. 'I'm sorry, _corpse_?' She meant it to sound scornful, maybe with a bit of challenge. But she was tired, and weak, and confused. It became a whimper.

As the man called Harriotts opened his mouth to interject, Church silenced him with a single raised walked over to the sprawling girl and crouched at her side. Martha saw that he was unarmed, but she had no energy to challenge the man.

'Hello. You are Martha?'

'Yes.' That was all Martha could bring herself to say.

'I have no name. You can call me Church.' The tall man waited for a response from her, but getting none, he continued.

'We are…agents, you could say. From the Capital- or at least, the part of it that most don't know. You could call us the government's dirty little secret, if it wasn't for the fact that they have so many of those.'

Church smiled tightly. Martha didn't know whether he expected her to smile back, but he quickly carried on regardless. 'We have several jobs, but all of them are linked to the Games. We enter the Arena, unknown to the tributes and the viewers. This cave and that little patch of bushes are specifically set up to be out of sight of all cameras. We monitor the tributes closely, and if they try anything shifty, we put an end to them.'

'But I haven't-' Martha managed to say. Church put up a hand to silence her, and to her amazement, it worked.

'Sometimes, we also save tributes who are proving…troublesome. Take Gower here.' He indicated the looming man who had grabbed her. 'He was making the games too quick, too easy. From the evidence of training we calculated that he could hunt down and murder the remaining tributes in a matter of hours, should he choose to. So we lured him into a trap, and captured him, for our own use. And useful he has proven to be.'

Martha didn't let herself feel hope, but she said it anyway. 'So…am I useful to you?'

'No.' It was Harriotts, unable to stand exclusion from the conversation. 'You are small, and irritating. There are too many tributes around, too late in the games, and they are all alone. No exactly conclusive to a grandstand finish, is it? So they told _us _to finish somebody off. And you were the easiest target.'

'Think of us as match-fixers,' continued Church. 'If it gets a little boring, we are told to spice things up. The bushes you were walking through lead to a cliff. All the audience will see is your body flying off it. We can arrange for a cannon to fire whenever it needs firing.'

'But…why did you want to talk to me? Why didn't you just finish it when you have the chance?' Martha's eyes were filling with tears, despite her best efforts. Having come so far, it felt empty to be die from some stupid intervention.

'That's what I was _saying,_' groaned Harriotts, but it was Church that Martha looked to.

'Just to say that…everything will be taken care of. We know your family, your friends. They will live happily and wealthily, we will see to it. And…'

For the first time since Martha had seen him, Church looked unsure of himself, but continued.

'To say that we want this as little as you do. We have all been in the Games too. We have all lost people. Our families were killed as soon as we took on this job, without our knowledge. I want you to know that this is nothing but business.'

Martha didn't know what to think. Church stood up, apparently having nothing more to say. But just as he turned away, and Gower stepped forward, already drawing his sword to finish the job, he spoke one final time.

'If there was a way to stop this, I would do so.'

Martha closed her eyes and waited for the blow.

* * *

'There is.'

The voice was a new one. Martha's eyes opened. She was still alive. And a new figure stepped from the shadows of the cave, where he had been standing unseen. It was another man, long-limbed and slender. But Martha's attention was drawn to the thing he carried.

The thing was flung to the ground. Martha recognised the bloody and broken body of Dana. A small girl like herself, in every other way Dana looked completely different. She was caked in blood and her clothes and body were torn in many places.

The new man spoke. He had grey eyes and a low, serious voice. 'I have a body. The helicopter couldn't get to the area where it died, so we were ordered to make up for it.' He indicated another corpse behind him. 'I have this one and another.'

Church was facing away from Martha, but she looked up at him anyway. There was silence in the cave. All four occupants waited for Church's response.

'Throw it from the cliff and sound the cannon.'

'Have you gone mad?' yelled Harriotts. 'The Capital will realise it's not her as soon as the bodies are collected.'

'That doesn't happen until the Games are over. I'm right, am I not, Dervite?' The fourth man nodded.

Church continued. 'By then, Martha and her family will be safe. We can smuggle her out. God knows we've done it before.'

'Only on the Capital's orders,' retorted Harriotts. 'She might be safe, but what about us?'

'I will deal with that when the time arises,' said Church icily. 'Now _you _can follow _my _orders and throw the corpse from the cliff. The capital will be wondering what is taking so long.'

Harriotts was seething, his face as red as his hair, but neither of the other men moved in his support.

'You will be the death of us, Church.'

'I would rather that than the death of another innocent! We have spent our lives killing, Harriotts. Let me do this one thing before it is over.' Church's face was red too now. Despite the cave's coolness, Martha could see him sweating.

Without another word, Harriotts and Gower shouldered Dana's corpse and left the cave through the opening Martha had arrived through. Church turned to look at Martha. There was a sense of peace on his face now the decision had been made, and though Martha didn't know what was going on, she knew how much he was risking.

'Come with me. I'm going to get you home.'

And with that, Church and Martha set off. Martha didn't understand all of what had transpired. She was hot, hungry and weak. But she understood one thing. She was going home. She was going to survive.

* * *

As a body fell from the high rocks in the arena, the third cannon of the day fired. And the surviving tributes, Joshua, Harriet, Sigrun, Atticus, Geraint, Matthew, and Gwen looked up at the sky that evening and saw three faces. One of them was Martha, and many of them mourned the youngest tribute's death.

By the time the truth came out, their troubles had long been over.

* * *

**A/N: If you're confused, good. That was the intention. Just to say that I'm very interested in how this chapter will be received. Martha was originally meant to die in this chapter, from falling off the very cliff the fake Martha falls off. But her popularity, and my intention to set up the already-planned-out sequel, means that she lives. Don't expect to see her or these four new characters again in _this_ story, but they will certainly appear in the future. I have big plans for Church, Harriotts (who is in no way related to Harriet), Gower and Dervite. **


	25. Vengeance and Peace

**A/N: Hello, sorry for the slow updates so far this year. Here is a chapter that might remind you of some people we haven't seen in a while-and might make you rethink one or two of them.**

* * *

Chapter 24: Vengeance and Peace

Since the death of Aurelia, things had been difficult for Harriet. She had begun to think, maybe, that Bracken's death was not the end of her world. There was someone else in the Games who cared about her, who would help her towards her goals. Someone who wanted her to live.

Unfortunately Aurelia had wanted her to live too much. Bracken's death had been heartbreaking, but Aurelia's had made her want to throw up. Harriet could still see it in her minds eye. A flash of lightning had illuminated the moment. Atticus had stabbed her twice, and twisted the blade. Even Gwen had not shown that level of glee in her work.

Harriet had turned away before Aurelia had fell. She had fled off into the darkness, clutching at her bleeding leg. The skinny boy had caught her hard in the lower thigh with a spear, but the weapon had became dislodged subsequently. It was somewhere on the forest floor, where Harriet couldn't find it. She had bandaged her leg with leaves, and stopped the bleeding, but had left all the supplies behind.

Her failure at the Feast angered her, but not as much as being in the Games in the first place. Everyone at this Games who showed any appreciation for life was brutally murdered. There were only seven of them left- Joshua, Sigrun, Matthew, Atticus, Gwen, Geraint and herself. Martha's face in last night's sky had bothered her more than she had expected, as the small girl had seemed harmless when she and Aurelia had taken them captive. Probably Atticus had turned on her as well. The boy was a nasty piece of work, for sure.

But it wasn't him who was filling Harriet's thoughts. Despite dropping almost all her supplies at the Feast, she had managed to keep hold of one thing. Her crossbow. And its final bolt.

She stood by what she had sworn when Bracken had died. The next time she saw Gwen, the bolt was going in her chest.

* * *

Far away from Harriet, on the other side of the arena, was someone in far better shape. Joshua had got away scot-free from the Feast, and had fed himself up since. At his side was his short sword; on his back was his long bow. The last of the Careers was fit and strong and, apparently, ready for anything left in the arena. He sat in a comfortable little hollow of earth, stocked full of supplies, with a rushing river at his side. His position was as secure as anyone's could be in a magically contained rainforest.

But despite it all, Joshua felt lost. The rage from the vengeance he brought down upon his former allies had dimmed.

Whenever he thought about what had happened to Gregory and Brianna, it was as if he was looking at himself through somebody else's eyes. He had acted as he had been told to act all his life. Efficiently and without remorse. But 'as he had been told to act' was not who he was.

He had sleepwalked through the last two days of his life. But he had come to realise that that moment of mindless, robotic violence did not define it. When he had looked up at the sky the previous evening, the face of Gregory awakened more than just memories of his unjust death. It reminded Joshua of what life had been like working with him. Gregory wasn't much use himself; he was unfit and a poor hunter. Worst of all, he was a slave to the wishes of the sharp-voiced Brianna.

But Joshua's work had kept them alive and healthy. The things he had done for them had enriched their lives as well as his own. It was a feeling he'd never had back at his home; the girls and boys of District 2 had always been taught to team up only for temporary truces, and to try and get the best deal for themselves whenever an agreement was made. And it generally worked; the close relationship between Districts 1 and 2 often led them to team up, only for the District 2 tributes to stab their allies in the back.

Joshua had never planned any such stuff. The mountainous, intimidating Leonidas and the proud fencer Julia had an independent look about them, and Joshua always worked better alone. But the satisfaction of his team-up with Gregory and Brianna had led him to start thinking. What if he had made a team?

Not for the first time since he had arrived in the arena, he began to think about his own District partner. Grace had died on the first day of the Games. Joshua had no idea how it had happened. He had liked her a lot; she had volunteered in the place of another tribute. This was rare in District 2, but in this case the tribute drawn had been young, weak, and despised. There were certain codes of honour among the oldest District 2 tributes regarding volunteering, and one of these was that if the nominated individual would be entertaining to watch lose, they would let him or her do so. It was a slightly sick custom, but weren't all their customs?

Grace was the only one who had dared take the youngster's place. She had never had much of a chance. She had been hurt quite badly by larger girls from her home district, and Joshua thought that, perhaps, she had volunteered to get away from that situation. She had probably had little hope of survival.

Her death had still shaken him, though. Earlier on that day, he had made his first murder, Simon, from District 3. Stabbed him with the sword he still bore. The thought that someone he'd known well, and liked, had died that same day, perhaps in the same manner and with the same contempt he'd shown Simon, had hit him close to home. His mental state had been all over the place when he was saved by Gregory and Brianna.

Because save him they had done. And though they had left him later, they had had every right to do so. He had killed before, and, as it turned out, he was perfectly willing to kill again. But not again. Not any more.

He had not seen his mother since he was ten years old, but he knew she was watching. So were the families of the tributes he had killed. And the tributes he had failed to protect. He had to do them justice.

The river flowed fast as he crouched at its side. It would quickly flush away anything-or anyone- who entered it.

Joshua pulled out his short blade. He had not cleaned it effectively. The marks of Simon's blood could still be seen. Joshua sent all the anger he had into the blade; all the anger that he had been forced to feel by the society that had brought him up. He stood tall, and drew his arm back.

With a grunt of effort, the sword flew across the river. The sun danced tantalisingly across the blade, and Joshua, for a split second, allowed himself to regret throwing aside his greatest tool.

But when it fell with a plop into the water, it was washed away from his sight. With it, he allowed all his instructions to vanish; everything he'd been told to do, everything he'd tried to ignore after he'd teamed up, but had ended up following anyway. The weapon was gone. It would do no more evil.

* * *

Joshua did not know he was being watched. Sigrun was hardly a quiet walker herself, but she was able to ready her great battleaxe regardless, as Joshua's breathing was exceptionally heavy. She had sallied from her clifftop fort to bag a meal, and now carried a small antelope over her shoulder.

She saw the tall boy standing beside the river. He was not trying to hide, but instead hurled his sword out into the middle of the river. Sigrun was not easily surprised, but seeing a fit and healthy Career cast aside his weapon, while not paying attention to his surroundings? It was a gold-wrapped opportunity for the axe-bearing girl.

But on the other hand…

Sigrun looked at the antelope she carried. It had a beautiful dappled coat, which had not been enough to hide it from her flying weapon. But she would rather not have killed it. Sigrun had hunted before; it was true, but only in need, just as she did so now. The antelope had to die to sustain her.

But Joshua…

He was the last of the Careers, and Sigrun wanted them beaten as much as anyone. But unlike the antelope, he wasn't necessary. When she had killed Nail on the first day of the Games, that had been necessary, perhaps. She had needed to keep him away from her axe, and to lay down a marker that she shouldn't be crossed.

But up in her fort, Sigrun was comfortable. Nobody could get to her up there without giving her a lot of warning, and nobody since Dana had dared try. And what's more, she had lost her appetite for slaughter. Now she had tried it, murder gave her no satisfaction. Death was not a glorious thing after all.

So, as silently as she could, she left Joshua to stand and look after his vanished weapon. Perhaps, thought Sigrun, he too no longer wanted to kill. And honestly, that was fine by her.

* * *

Joshua, carried away by his release of the blade, noticed nothing. He finally looked down, to see his bow, hanging at his side like it always did. The bow that had the blood of Gregory and Brianna on it.

But there was one thing he had been taught that he could not rid himself of so easily. His survival instinct. He lived by hunting, and if he threw aside his bow, he was might as well cast himself after it.

He considered doing just that.

But Joshua's will was not weak, despite how fast it could change. He was not going to give up on the Games. For all he knew, there could be nobody left out there who wanted to kill. The Careers were long gone, after all.

So Joshua kept his bow. But no more murder, he resolved. For good this time. For Gregory, Brianna and Simon. For Grace, and for himself. If ever there was a time to be true to himself, it was right now, in the last few days of his life.

Nobody would die by the hand of Joshua again.


	26. The Sword and the Stone

Chapter 25: The Sword and the Stone

Atticus was free.

After leaving Martha he hadn't looked back. He no longer needed their old camp; he no longer needed any camp. He had murdered two people now, in a fair fight on each occasion. He had watched as Samuel, his greatest rival, was cut down before his eyes without him needing to lift a finger. His very presence had forced Gwen and Harriet into flight. So, the morning after the Feast, he had gone hunting.

Unfortunately, he'd found nobody, but the deaths of Gregory and Dana that day had boosted him further. The careers were destroyed, with the exception of Joshua, who he'd hardly seen. He was confident he could deal with the tubby Sigrun, the posh, privileged Matthew and the skinny Geraint. So even now, two days after the Feast, and with the sky darkening, Atticus was prowling the forest, making little attempt to hide. It was all about finding a tribute as soon as possible. He was in command of these Games.

Nobody could have predicted this outcome, except himself. At home they'd thrown abuse at him- for his dirtiness, his toothy grin, his unappealing bony body. At the same time, they'd loved Martha, and despaired at her Reaping. Atticus smiled and shook his head when he thought of it. None of them had come in her place. They were more like him than they realised.

In fact, he'd done more to help Martha than anyone at his home! Atticus had endured her presence for days before finally shaking her off. He'd fed her, protected her, and dragged her around with him. He hoped the little twit was thankful!

It was then that Atticus remembered. She was dead.

He'd tried to forget. It was somehow easier to ignore what he'd seen. The fact that it had come so soon after his departure made it abundantly clear to him that it had been his fault. Without his aid, she was helpless.

But who cared? That was what he told himself. He'd never got to know her. As far as he knew she was just a small girl who looked somewhat like a mouse. He didn't even know how old she'd been. 14? 15? What did it matter?

But it did matter, and Atticus knew it. She had put her trust in him, yes, but that wasn't the reason. He had trusted _himself_ to protect her. He was going to show those bastards at home exactly what he was made of. Not just a killer, but a warrior. A warrior who could keep alive what they held dear. And he had failed.

All these thoughts were tumbling tumultuously through his head. Atticus didn't even realise, so caught up in musings, that he was wandering around in circles.

* * *

The Head Gamemaker sighed.

These must be the most worthless tributes in living memory, he thought. There was one walking around in continuous circles. One was camped in a swamp, one on a cliff. Both stubbornly refused to move and start murdering. Then there was Geraint, who had failed to show any instinct for killing all games, Harriet, who was down to a single crossbow bolt (with no crossbow to go with it), and Gwen, who was perfectly happy to kill people, but, as it turned out, was no tracker. She had picked up the trail of Atticus but was dutifully following it in a circle. Her body language suggested she was growing more and more frustrated by the minute. Even Joshua, the only career who'd survived the first two days, had been seen throwing his sword in the river. They were all mad.

'At this rate,' he said to nobody in particular. 'They're all going to starve to death without ever seeing each other.'

'At least the Games will live up to their name this year, eh?' ventured a small subordinate. The Head Gamemaker looked at her until she looked away. He made a mental note to replace her at some point. The Capitol knew what to do with people who were replaced.

But it was the Capitol that was causing his problems at the moment. When the Games were on, it served as a distraction, but it also incorporated all of the Capitol's resources to prevent riots at the more…heartbreaking moments.

And these Games had gone on quite long enough, they'd decided. They simply hadn't been very interesting. The Careers had been weak and easily killed, and any time the audience got behind a hero that hero immediately died. Usually in an anticlimactic way. First there was Carolina, who had fallen off a cliff after becoming very popular. Then there was Bracken, who'd been cut down by Gwen with remarkable ease. Samuel had been that love-to-hate figure every Games needed. Aurelia had gained vast popularity. They had died as well, Aurelia at the hand of the odious Atticus.

Martha's death had been the final straw. District 6 had not approved of the way she'd been flung from the cliff, like a toy. And the Capital had told him to end the Games as soon as he could. They had business to sort out with a couple of their important agents in the Games, and the business couldn't be done until they were over.

That was why the non-aggression of the tributes was so frustrating. But the Head Gamemaker had plenty of plans for such a situation. And there was one that was just perfect. It would kill two birds with one stone. He laughed inwardly (laughing outwardly was a sign of weakness) at the pun nobody else would get.

He walked over to one of his assistants. 'She's close enough now. Raise a root or something.

'Make him _squeal_.'

* * *

It was getting dark. Atticus was annoyed about being unable to find anyone. Being alone was more irritating than he'd imagined. He had never spoken to Martha unless he had to, but it was somehow comforting having somebody else _there_. Two days by himself was wearing thin.

Suddenly, as he looked around for a spot to spend the night, his foot caught on something. Whatever it was refused to give way, and he slipped backwards with a yelp.

Atticus' spine slammed hard onto the ground. He had never been less grateful for his lack of fat. Looking down to see what his foot had caught on, he was shocked to feel a tightening on his shoe. A root had tripped him up, and now it was holding his right foot tightly in the gap between it and the earth. It was almost as if it had grabbed hold of him as he walked over it.

There was distant thunder. Atticus pulled on his leg to try and dislodge it, but it had stuck fast. How had it happened? He was no nature expert, but he was pretty bloody sure that roots didn't grab hold of people and hold them onto the ground. Trying not to panic, he seized his lower leg and pulled as hard as he could with both of his hands.

His foot moved slightly; the heel came loose. But somehow this just tightened the hold even more, and he actually cried out in pain. His foot was numb; he could feel the blood being cut off from it.

With a yell, he gave a final, energised pull, followed by a louder cry as the skin was shredded on his foot. It had rubbed hard on his shoe, and he knew it would be bleeding now. There was only one thing for it. He grabbed his cutlass from his side and, pulling himself forward using his limited upper body strength, sliced the root in two.

The wood cut as easily as any other root. But as soon as he cut it, it shrivelled back to the ground, like a dead animal. As Atticus scrambled to his feet, it shrunk down into the earth, as if it had never stuck out in the first place.

It was only then that he realised how heavily he was panting. He tried to slow down his heartbeat and breathing a bit. He hadn't been panicking, had he? Putting his hand up to his dark hair, he felt it sticky with sweat- and not just because of the heat.

There was no sign of either fragment of the root he had cut. Atticus shivered. He hated things that he didn't understand. It was almost black dark already- night came quickly here, and there was a storm brewing- but Atticus had no desire to sleep anywhere nearby. He had to move on again.

He heard a noise and froze in sudden alarm. The thunder rumbled again, and the skies opened, ruining any chance he had of hearing anything properly. Atticus' heart had risen in his throat and refused to move down again. He forced it back with a gulp. He was the master of these Games, wasn't he?

'Hello.'

The voice boomed out from somewhere in the darkness. Atticus spun around in a circle, looking for the source. The advancing night and intensifying rain meant that he was unable to see more than a few feet in front of him. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling, and, frustrated, he pushed them flat. It achieved nothing, but it helped him think he was under control of his fear.

'I see you're by yourself. Congratulations.'

The voice was a female one. This did not in any way raise Atticus' confidence. He still held his cutlass, and now raised it up high so the person would see it. He needed to respond.

'Are you?' It was meant to be a challenge, but it came out nervously (even though he had to shout to be heard over the rain). What was wrong with him?

'Always have been.' And now Atticus recognised the voice. It was Gwen. She had run from them before, hadn't she?

'What do you want? You'd better start running before I see you!' A bit of bravado had entered Atticus' voice. But Gwen appeared unimpressed.

'As far as I can remember you're the one who was screaming. Made you very easy to find.'

'But why were you trying to find me?' asked Atticus. He still couldn't see anything, but dared not move.

There was no response. Had she gone? Lost her nerve? Atticus kept his sword raised, and slowly turned in a circle. Nothing. He laughed nervously.

'I found this.' He was struck in the back by something small and hard, but thrown lightly, without any attempt to injure him. Turning hurriedly around, he saw a shadow at the edge of his vision, before it melted away. Atticus bent down to look at the thing that had hit him.

It was Martha's hammer.

'This isn't mine,' he said, confused.

'It was your partners,' came Gwen's voice, more forcefully. 'What happened to her?'

'I don't know. Why do you care?' Atticus attempted to hide his fear by dismissing her concerns, but he knew how dangerous Gwen could be. He had seen her tear into Samuel like he was made of paper.

'She reminded me of somebody.'

'Who…'

'Me.'

Atticus was confused. Martha was small and weak. Gwen, despite her short stature and scruffiness, was strong and dangerous.

'She wasn't anything like you. She was nothing but a thorn in my side as I tried to win! Surely you understand that.'

The reply was sharp. 'She had more in her than you knew. She refused to flee as I advanced on her. She even turned to face me.

'Which is more than you'll ever do.'

'Whoa, whoa, whoa,' said Atticus. He was sweating again, but he forced it out of his head. The rain was beginning to slow down, he just had to bide his time until she was more visible. 'You still haven't told me why you're angry at _me_. I didn't touch a hair on her head.'

'I found it at the Feast site earlier today. The same place I last saw her, along with you. You did nothing but use her as bait to have your enemy killed. You are without honour.'

Despite his predicament, Atticus laughed. The hypocrisy was incredible. 'So what? You have butchered your way through these Games, all by yourself. You have no more thoughts of loyalty than I do!'

'DON'T YOU DARE!' yelled Gwen. Her voice became higher and more feminine as she yelled, and Atticus smirked. He'd got to her.

'Don't you dare,' Gwen continued, 'accuse _me_ of disloyalty. Do you want to know why I've stayed alone? Why I never sought out a partnership? Because I have honour. I would never murder an ally, and once a friendship was forged, I would fight to my last breath to defend their life. But I needed to win.'

Gwen was circling Atticus now; he could hear it by her voice. The rain was beginning to clear, but the encroaching night didn't help him in trying to locate her. He stayed quiet and listened closely as she kept speaking, softer than before.

'So I stayed away from alliances. My family, my friends at home, they need me. I care for them more than you. So I had to kill- but never in the back.'

She only carried swords, Atticus reminded himself. She would have to get close to fight him.

'I met a couple earlier in the Games. District 11, I think. One of them laid down their life so that the other could escape. I pitied them, because in their situation, I would have no choice but to do the same. It is in my blood.'

Man, thought Atticus, she was talkative. Probably came from having nobody to talk to.

'But _you_.' And now a hard edge re-entered her voice. 'You think nothing of aiding someone, of keeping them alive, and then casting them aside. You think a few good deeds validates forsaking loyalty? You are wrong. Martha was better than you. Without her, you'd have been dead long ago.'

The rain had slowed to a quiet patter, and though Atticus was listening more to where Gwen was speaking from than what she was saying, he could tell she was nearly ready to strike. But he had an ace up his sleeve.

'All right. If I am so _evil_, let me make it up to you. Join forces, aye? Hunt down those other morons, and then scrap it out at the last.'

There was silence. Atticus looked around in a fret, but saw nothing of her. He tried not to panic like he had with that root.

'Why not?' he cautiously mentioned. 'We're the best two left.'

'Of course you do not listen.'

The voice was behind him. It was low, dangerous. Determined.

'Now, now, look,' said Atticus, his voice cracking. _Don't panic._ 'Honour, right? Chivalry? All that nonse… stuff you were talking about? Let me see you. Sword against sword, right?'

'Fortunately,' hissed Gwen. 'There is no need for that. You do not merit it. And I found something else with the hammer. Your partner dropped everything she owned when you abandoned her to her death, you see.'

Atticus' eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, and he thought he could see a silhouette. He raised his sword in front of him, and stepped back, slowly.

'We could be great together!' His voice was higher than he'd expected. 'Just for a little while, then we could fight all you wan…'

A slingstone hurtled from the darkness. It filled Atticus' field of vision, and swallowed it up.

* * *

Gwen stepped towards the lifeless body as a cannon fired. It had been easy, as she'd anticipated. The boy had not listened to what she had said. So she found a rare sense of satisfaction in ending him. She had brought justice upon him.

Gwen picked up Martha's slingstone from where it sat next to his shattered skull. Five more to go.

Then she'd never have to kill again.

* * *

**A/N: This is in close competition with Martha's escape as my favourite chapter to date- it's been planned in detail from the start. Like that one, it is very long, though, so let me know if you prefer them shorter. Six tributes to go- three boys, three girls. **

**Also, I hope you notice the parallel between the end of this chapter and the previous one. But they are not quite the same as one another, and the distinction is important.**


	27. The Underdog

**A/N: Thanks for your patience with the slow updates. There are not a lot of chapters left now, with only six survivors, but I can guarantee that there will be at least thirty and that there will be a winner. That winner is set to appear in the (already quite heavily planned out) sequel, which is set to have a much more coherent and focused story, instead of being 100% character development. But for now, my focus is on the ending of this one. **

* * *

Chapter 26: The Underdog

The night of the seventh day of the Games was hard for everyone. The sight of Atticus' face in the sky was somewhat of a relief, but there was still no calm for any of the six survivors. Their were too many opponents left to allow any of them to rest easy.

For Harriet, the situation was hardest. She had kept herself alive for the last two days since the Feast. Her discovery of a fast-flowing stream had allowed her to refresh herself with water, and she had been careful not to move far away from it. But food- wholesome food that she could trust not to poison her- was much harder to find. She was lonely, and so frightened she was often unable to think, or to sleep.

But as the eighth day dawned, after another sleepless night, Harriet had a breakthrough. She was thinking about her enemies, and realised something important. Their training scores were all higher than hers.

Harriet had a good memory for numbers and faces, and she could clearly recall what they'd all been given. Joshua, a 9. Matthew, another 9. Sigrun, another 9. Geraint, a surprising 10. And finally, Gwen had received a score of 11, the joint best along with the long-gone Leonidas. Harriet's own training had not gone nearly so well. She had tried to show off her tree-climbing skills and her effective use of the spear, but had nearly slipped and fallen while climbing the thing they had set up. She had received a generous 6, one less than her great friend and teammate Bracken.

She was the underdog, and by a considerable margin too. The underdog never failed, at least, not without a fight. And her five enemies-well, they had made it this long, they had probably killed plenty in their time. They were all deadly, and she would have to match them.

So Harriet shook off her despair. She had her crossbow, she had water. All she needed was more food than rare, potentially dangerous berries. And there was a way to find food that she hadn't tried yet.

Theft.

The other five were out there. They were probably better stocked with supplies than she was. So why not take it from them? She could find someone, follow them to their camp, and then wait for them to leave their things unguarded. She could keep herself hidden if she needed to.

So, crossbow in hand, Harriet started her earnest search. Her head was held high, her feet planted firmly upon the ground. She was no quivering wreck. Harriet was a fighter, and if she needed to she would go down as one. But she wouldn't. No underdog dies first. That just wasn't how it went.

And, she thought as she pushed herself into a thick part of the jungle, Gwen was around somewhere. Gwen, who had killed her closest friend. And perhaps, worst of all, she had allowed Harriet to live. A mistake on her part, thought Harriet. Her hand tightened around her final crossbow bolt. Even in her moments of greatest despondency she had kept up her practice. She knew she could hit a target at a moment's notice, and if Gwen appeared in her sight, she wouldn't hesitate to get her revenge.

* * *

Time passed slowly, though, and Harriet found nothing. No Gwen, no anyone. And she was starting to hurt badly from not eating. She could feel the tightness of her skin around her ribs, and it unsettled her. Her energy was low, and her confident stride became a slow, stumbling walk. All Harriet's attention was focused on looking around. She would not let herself be ambushed. She would do Bracken and Aurelia proud.

It was probably nearly midday, judging by the ever-increasing heat, before Harriet saw anything. There was a sudden clap of noise and a great brown shape burst out of the trees. It galloped straight towards her, before turning at the last minute and flashing by her shoulder. Harriet raised her loaded crossbow, but her arm moved at the speed of her creaking joints- that is, not fast enough. The deer was off, dancing between the trees, before its dappled shape vanished into the brown backdrop of the forest.

Harriet found herself alone again, breathing slowly but heavily. The closeness of the animal had been a shock to her. It had been the nearest she had come to the warmth of another creature since she had been stabbed by Atticus three days ago. Her immense loneliness came crashing down once more. She needed to find somebody else. And not just for food.

Harriet cursed her wish as, no more than a second later, there were heavy footsteps. The person making them was not attempting to hide themselves. And they were nearby.

Harriet's brain was a flurry of sudden thoughts as it awoke from the long monotony of her walk. She needed to find somebody else, but she had not expected them to come to her. Her head flicked from side to side, and, spotting a thorny heap of branches, she clambered, ignoring the pain, into the depths of it.

And not a moment too soon. Amidst the trunks of trees and heaps of vegetation, she saw a brown-haired head rise into view. It was facing away from her, and was surely too far away to make out facial features in any case, but it looked like a female head, with long hair. This was further confirmed when the person climbed higher, and their body came into view. They were dragging a dead deer, smaller than the one she had seen. Perhaps that explained what it had been fleeing from.

Was it Gwen? Harriet couldn't tell. The person was too far away. However, she had the right colour hair, and walked with confidence- or arrogance. Harriet only knew one other who had had that level of trust in their own abilities.

Well, thought Harriet, as she reached for her crossbow, let's show her that that trust is misguided.

But as her arm stretched backwards, the broad leaf that it had been leaning on sprang loose. It twanged upwards, making a rustling noise as it brushed against the thorny vegetation. Harriet froze. So did the person who she was staring at.

The movement of the large leaf had only made a slight noise, but it stood out in the surprising silence of the jungle. The arena was not rich in wildlife, and the chatter of birds had gradually disappeared as the Games had progressed. Surely the figure had heard Harriet.

And, sure enough, the girl turned and walked towards her. But as she did so, Harriet realised it was not who she'd thought it was. Gwen, she remembered, had been shorter, less broad and bulky, with her hair in an untidy ponytail. And Gwen had carried two swords, while this girl had a double-bladed axe slung over her shoulder. Sigrun. The only other girl in the Games. Of course.

This made the situation no easier for Harriet. Sigrun was dangerous; she still remembered how remorselessly she had murdered Nail at the very start of the Games, so long ago. And what made it worse was that Harriet had only one crossbow bolt left, and she'd sworn to save it for Gwen. Sigrun was far bigger than her, stronger than her, healthier than her. She didn't have a chance of beating her without the crossbow, but she also didn't want to waste it.

Sigrun was walking slowly in her direction, looking from side to side. She had clearly heard something, but perhaps wasn't certain where it had come from. That was Harriet's chance. She needed to stay hidden, and wait until Sigrun departed. Then, perhaps, Harriet could follow her, and find where she had been hiding herself.

But Sigrun was still slowly pacing in her direction. She was not to be deterred, and if she got any closer Harriet would get easier and easier to see. She hadn't completely covered herself with vegetation, and the sun was at its zenith. If Sigrun got close enough, Harriet would have no choice but to try and run, or to shoot her.

She had never been more conscious of the ragged, noisy breaths she was taking. She was deprived of sleep, deprived of food and water, and most importantly of all, was incredibly afraid. Being huddled beneath plants in this heart also did not help with sweating. She resisted the urge to itch at her prickling skin. Why, oh why would Sigrun not give up?

Harriet screwed her eyes shut. The footsteps were not abating, in fact they were increasing in pace and proximity. There was no getting out of this now. She just had to ignore her surroundings for a bit, slow her breathing, and hope she wasn't spotted.

The footsteps stopped.

In the silence Harriet heard her breaths even louder. She choked back her panic; she was the underdog, the underdog would not lose. When she opened her eyes, Sigrun would be gone.

She opened her eyes.

Sigrun was standing no more than twenty paces from where she lay. She still carried the deer. Her axe was on her back. And her eyes were looking straight into Harriet's own.

Harriet knew she could see her. As much as she tried to blend in, there was no way anyone looking right at her could not make out her pale skin and blonde hair amidst the branches. But what was there to do? Sigrun was too close for her to get away with any tricks. She could attack. She could run. But faced with the all-too-real presence of a proven killer, armed with an axe and a strength twice that of her own, Harriet was caught in the headlights. She could do nothing but stare back at her opponent.

Sigrun stared back at her for a moment. Then, without a word, the hefty girl turned and strolled away.

Sigrun's heavy footsteps gradually receded, leaving Harriet in a stunned silence. Only when she was sure she was alone did she leave the thicket.

Peering around, Harriet saw no sign of her apparent aggressor. Sigrun had looked straight into her eyes, but she had been allowed to live. Why?

It didn't matter. What was more important was that Harriet had been a coward once more. What happened to her grand plans of following her foes and stealing their supplies? It had disappeared as soon as they had locked gazes. Harriet had fled from Gwen and fled from Atticus. Bracken and Aurelia had died instead of doing the same. And now she had failed to stand up to the first enemy she had had to face alone.

Tired, hungry and parched, Harriet set off once more, in the opposite direction to Sigrun. Next time, she wouldn't be so lucky. She had to stand up to them, or die.


	28. The Unstoppable Warrior

**Chapter 27: The Unstoppable Warrior**

From a thicket that was dense but not concealing, two blue eyes had stared out at Sigrun. The girl's gaze had been defiant but full of fear. Sigrun had known as soon as she had seen them that Harriet was not going to pose a threat. She was an easy kill, just as Joshua had been the previous day.

But Sigrun had spared their lives. She had not done anything heroic; she was in no doubt about that. If she was to win the competition they had to die. But why murder them for no good reason? Killing people was not a pleasant task; while she didn't regret the death of Nail (it had been necessary to intimidate the opposition at the bloodbath), she took no pleasure in it. Neither Harriet nor Joshua had had to die. Joshua had failed to see her, Harriet was frozen in fear. Like Joshua, there had been no chance of Harriet following her.

And even if they did, they would surely balk at the place they would follow her back to. Sigrun's little palisade atop the cliff had grown and been reinforced by a second, inner line of defensive tree trunks. She had also worked hard to roll a boulder into her camp. It could be used to roll against the inner door, while the outer wedged tightly shut. With the makeshift fortifications protecting her front, and the cliff edge at her rear, Sigrun's camp was impregnable. She had christened it the Fort. Not the most original of names, but it suited the place. She had no need to sally forth and murder her enemies. She could sleep easy at night.

Unfortunately, she still had to venture out to obtain food. However, Sigrun's hunting skills were just one of her many strengths, and her area of the forest was plentiful in large deer, one of which she carried over her shoulder. She strode through the forests down the familiar road to her camp. It was as if she owned the place; which, in a way, she did. As things were, she was untouchable.

In her confidence, she did not see another pair of eyes, these brown and focused rather than blue and startled. Every step Sigrun took towards her refuge was being watched.

* * *

Soon, the ground below her started to slope, and she pulled her axe down from her back to help hoist herself up. The plateau she lived on was a long way up, and Sigrun was a heavy girl who'd found food easy to come by in the arena. The two-headed axe, made for killing as it was, was just as useful as a walking stick.

Sigrun smiled when she emerged from the jungle. The cliff edge was grassy but otherwise a rare patch of open ground, made more so by the amount of trees she had cut down with her axe. And it was beautiful; she had a wonderful view of the expanse of jungle that covered the arena. Her axe shone in the sun, the blood from her hunt drying in the air. The wind, cooling after the heat of the remainder of the forest, whirled through her untied dark hair, and she shook her head to throw it out of the way. Axe in one hand, deer in the other, she strode towards the stake walls she used to protect her camp.

Sigrun may have been a fighter, but she appreciated peace and life. There was more of that up here than even the wildest parts of her district. The air was somehow fresher up here, less congested and more real. The only noises other than her footsteps were the mindless witterings of the birds and the wind swirling through the trees.

And the rustling of leaves…

Sigrun heard the noise behind her, but for a second she didn't register it as abnormal. By the time she realised she'd been tracked the person had spoken.

'Turn and face me.'

Sigrun's eyes closed in what, for her, amounted to panic. She had become complacent, content with her life of peace, and it had left her vulnerable. She turned at the speed of continental drift, unwilling to accept that she had been beaten but powerless to do anything else.

She expected to see a blade at her throat, or a drawn bow aimed at her. But the short, scruffy girl facing her was a few paces away, and her sword was held upright in front of her. It was as if she was expecting to fence, rather than having already won.

'Drop the animal,' added Gwen. She did not attack Sigrun, but still held her fencer's position. Confused but allowing herself a bit of hope, Sigrun let the deer fall to the ground. What did Gwen want from her, if not to murder her?

'Will you fight me?' That was all she said, but it made her intentions clear.

Sigrun understood. Gwen was no backstabbing, unscrupulous Career. Both of them had made it this far, and it seemed that she was being shown respect. Deserved respect, of course.

In better times, perhaps the girl who waited on her answer could have been a kindred spirit. Perhaps, even a friend, or at least a holder of similar morals. But as it was, she was an enemy. Sigrun had no qualms with killing when it was necessary. She raised her axe to a defensive position.

'I will.'

There was no need to speak again. Gwen lowered her sword from its position, and gripping it in two hands, charged.

Sigrun's axe, held horizontally, was only just raised in time to parry the blow. Gwen's blade lashed out with enough power to send them both reeling backwards. This was more damaging for Gwen than Sigrun, as the slope of the plateau meant she had to catch herself on the ground. The girl didn't pause though, immediately steadying herself to charge once more.

Sigrun took a step to the right and lunged with her axe to catch the reckless attack. But Gwen's sword moved faster than she predicted, and it was flicked leftwards in one deft movement that nearly tore into Sigrun's cheek.

Sigrun was taken aback. She hadn't fought anyone since Dana, and was admittedly rusty. But that was no reason to fall victim to this unkempt District 12 girl's predictable ruses. She was a great warrior; no, _the _great warrior, in these games, and shouldn't be letting someone half her size push her around.

Gwen's charge had left her with the higher ground. She still held a blade in both hands, though Sigrun saw that she had a backup strapped to her waist. Sigrun was usually more of a defensive fighter, but the need to regain her high ground advantage and her wounded pride spurred her on.

With a yell she powered uphill, swinging her axe in an unstoppable arc. Gwen simply sprang into the air to avoid the first swing, and then darted under the wilder return. Sigrun had to turn and hold the shaft of her weapon in front of her face to block the lash of Gwen's blade from behind.

Gwen was even better than she had thought. This was her tribute score of 12 in action, and it was scaring Sigrun. The big girl stumbled backwards, back up the hill. For the first time, she thought of the Fort. It was behind her now, not far away. Its security was tempting, but Sigrun was no coward. Her axe still shone in the sun. She had regained the high ground.

Gwen did not pause for long. Snarling, she charged once more, swinging her sword as she had done the previous two times. This time, though, Sigrun predicted the blow, and easily blocked it with her axe haft. Gwen did not pull her sword back, pushing the blade into the wood as if she was trying to break it. She was stronger than she looked, but nobody could outmuscle Sigrun uphill. She grinned and, holding her axe in a wide grip, forced Gwen down the slope.

Gwen took one step backwards, throwing Sigrun off balance. Then, letting go of the sword with her left hand, she drew the other in an instant and lashed it towards Sigrun.

The burst of pain in her side caused Sigrun to cry out. She put her hand to the spot; it was hot and wet already. Her head spinning, she realised she'd fallen to one knee. Gritting her teeth, she looked up into Gwen's eyes. The girl advanced, now with a blade in each hand. There was no mercy in her eyes, nor did Sigrun expect any.

A lesser tribute would have let her come. But Sigrun had come too far to let a single blow kill her hopes. She scrambled up and backwards, one hand clinging desperately to her treasured axe, the other fumbling on the ground for something.

Gwen continued untroubled. She moved faster than Sigrun could do in her state. But as she drew her blade back for a killer blow, Sigrun found what she was looking for.

With a great burst of energy, she flung the deer carcass into her enemy's face. The throw was perfect, and for the first time Gwen was caught off guard. Sigrun did not wait to see her reaction, instead turning and throwing every last ounce of effort into flight.

Blood streamed unabated from her wound, and she was gasping and panting as she went, but with the aid of the axe, once again used as a walking stick, she made it to the top of the slope. She could hear pounding footsteps from behind her, much steadier and faster than her own, but without turning slammed her body into the outer wall of the Fort, wrenched the door open and flung herself inside.

The door of the outer palisade slammed tightly shut behind her, but there was no lock for it. Sigrun kept moving, reaching the inner palisade and throwing herself in.

Just in time. As she slammed the inner door she heard a body crash into the outer one. A second later there was a clattering of timber. It sounded like the entire door had been hurled away from the rest of the wall. Gwen was a force of nature, and Sigrun could no longer hide her fear. Dropping her axe, she flung her weight behind the large boulder she used to block off the inner door, but before she could move it that door was hit too. It shifted but mercifully wedged shut. Before Gwen could power through, Sigrun used all her adrenaline to force the boulder into position, stopping the door for good.

She shivered as the door was hit again, and again. The girl attacking her never spoke. But she didn't need to. Everything she did was said with swords and force.

The crashing noises stopped. There was a pause, then footsteps leading away. Silence descended upon the cliffside once more. It was broken by a quiet whimpering, which, Sigrun realised, was her own voice.

It was a while before Sigrun could bring herself to move away from the boulder and patch up her wound. While bloody, it was not deep. Her body and brain were still working. It felt like a miracle after the force of nature she had tried to fight.

She had also learned an important thing. For all her confidence, her power and her health, she was not the ruler of this place. Gwen may be short, with unimpressive, forgettable features, but she was the deadliest warrior Sigrun had ever seen. Nobody in these Games was going to be able to beat her. And that terrified Sigrun.

Sigrun made a decision. She had enough food stored to last a few more days. The Fort alone had kept Gwen out- without it, she would have been lost. She would be safe in here. She was never leaving it again.


	29. Desperation and Mercy

**A/N: A long chapter for you with the final six tributes. Some interesting observations in the comments last time, but I will leave you to draw your own conclusions. Hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter 28: Desperation and Mercy**

The last light of the day was fading below the horizon. A single shaft of sun had broken through the leaves, illuminating a small clearing in the midst of the jungle. On a small rock in the middle of the clearing sat Joshua.

A watcher would be perplexed at what he was doing. He held an arrow in his hand, but ignored the point, instead stroking the feathers up and down, up and down.

It was a strange thing, thought Joshua, that something made for killing people was so soft to the touch. You only had to know which side to hold, and you got a whole different perspective.

He wasn't much of a thinker. Not stupid, Joshua knew he wasn't stupid. He'd just…never had time for thinking. But now, with only five others to avoid in a vast rainforest, and no reason to try and find any of them, he had time to himself.

He didn't think fast, but he thought well. He had yet to regret throwing aside his sword. The bow was still around for him to hunt with, and he'd kept himself healthy enough with it. He'd avoided disease, overheating and starvation. They were his enemies now, not the other tributes.

But night was coming on. He needed to find a better place to sleep, and then go again tomorrow. It was a lot easier to move forward in the Games if you didn't think about the other contestants.

* * *

Not everyone in the Games was quite as focused. And one individual had been alone with his thoughts for far too long.

Matthew had not seen anybody since he had fought Dana at the Feast. The Games had gone on longer than he'd imagined, and he was beginning to spend more and more time away from his little camp out in the marchlands. He needed to hunt at the very least; he couldn't survive just on the small, slimy fish and frogs that surrounded him in the marshes.

There was one area of the swamp he had not yet tried. It was a patch of darker, deeper water with few patches of land or sludge. Matthew had enough common sense to be wary of such areas. There were ripples there, occasionally, speaking of far larger fish. Perhaps they would be big enough to sustain him for a day. Perhaps they would be big enough to take his spear and his arm alongside it.

His cautious nature, the thing that he believed set him aside from the other barbarians in the arena, kept him away. But his attempts to hunt had been less successful than he'd hoped. He was well-equipped with a sword and a thrusting spear, but didn't have the agility any more to outmanoeuvre an animal. As it was, he was hungry, thin and bad-tempered.

Back at home, had he failed in his training he could come back to a warm hearth and a hearty meal. His stern father would reprimand him, as he deserved, but he would not starve. That was not the case here. He could not afford any more unsuccessful hunts.

Unfortunately, the sun was going down on another bad day. Matthew was a long way from his camp, but he had stayed out longer than usual to try and catch a drowsy animal in the evening. It had not worked. He had left it too late to make it back before darkness. Hopefully, without the spectacles he'd relied on before the Games had begun (he'd lost them almost immediately), he'd find the way.

It was while he was hastening back to the swamp that he saw Joshua.

Matthew stopped and hit the ground as soon as he saw his enemy. But Joshua, ambling through the forest, apparently at ease, did not appear to see him. His first thought was ambush. Matthew had been taught to avoid a full-frontal assault if at all possible, instead laying traps and waiting for weak points. It had worked like a dream against Leonidas on the first day of the Games, but he hadn't had a chance since.

As his analytical mind looked Joshua over, he was surprised at his fitness. Matthew had been proud of his sturdy physique when the Games began, but he's lost an alarming amount of weight since then and now looked almost sunken. Joshua, in contrast, appeared to fill his suit to perfection. He wasn't the most muscular, but he was lean and athletic, with arms powerful enough to draw a bow. He had clearly survived well. Matthew was both impressed and wary. Perhaps he ought to continue home, leaving the Career for another day.

He cursed that thought as soon as he had it. Here was an opportunity put on a plate for him, and he was considering abandoning it? The Matthew that had outwitted Leonidas, and booted him from a cliff while calling him 'old chap'- that Matthew would never turn down a golden chance to not only kill an opponent, but humiliate them. And best of all, show them who had beaten them.

Joshua was still unaware. Matthew gripped his sword, and pinpointed the spot on Joshua's back where it was going to go. Should severe an acceptable amount of arteries, leaving him alive long enough for him to know who had done it. Matthew smiled his smug smile. It hurt his cheeks to do so. The last time he had smiled his face had been wider.

But that didn't matter. Because the old Matthew was coming back.

He leapt.

* * *

Joshua heard the flurry of bushes, and the squawking of a disturbed bird, and immediately knew what it was. He turned on instinct, crouching down and yanking his bow from his back and bracing it in front of his face.

Matthew's heavy sword smashed into the bow with incredible power. Joshua took several steps back, his head spinning. When it cleared, he saw the boy panting in front of him, doubled over with the force of the blow he had dealt. Matthew was barely recognisable; he was still short, pale and blond, but had lost a lot of weight. His once tidy hair was uncut and unruly, his cheeks sunken and sweaty. But, despite the failure of the ambush, Matthew had not given up.

Joshua backed away from his advancing opponent. His bow had held firm; it was made of strong wood. But he didn't have time to pull an arrow from the quiver at his waist. By the time he had pulled back the bowstring, Matthew would be on him.

Matthew, the only one of the two with a sword, launched himself forward. Joshua pulled back his chest from the blow of the curved blade, then, grabbing his bow with two hands, wedged it beneath Matthew's sword hand. Matthew gasped and pulled it back, but Joshua twisted the bow as he did so, sending the sword spinning away. Joshua leapt for it on instinct.

Matthew was too slow to stop his weapon being seized. But Joshua had other intentions than to use it. Seizing it by the hilt, he ran towards Matthew, and then as he ducked, sent it spinning away behind his head.

Panting, Joshua watched his enemy's sword vanish into the gloom of the darkening jungle. Matthew too watched it go. But instead of going after it, he just pulled a spear out and advanced again.

Joshua had no choice. He charged in, taking Matthew by surprise, grabbed the spear and pulled it forward. Matthew stumbled briefly, but it was enough to allow Joshua to dart behind him and pull his arms from the weapon. The spear clanked away, out of Matthew's reach, and Joshua held both his opponent's arms firmly behind his back. Matthew was clearly tired and weakened, and his struggles didn't stir Joshua.

'Why did you attack?'

Matthew didn't answer, only struggling in Joshua's grip. Joshua repeated the question. There was a pause, and then Matthew shrugged.

'Why the devil not?'

Joshua didn't even know why he had asked. He too would have tried to kill Matthew a few days ago. But he had changed. Joshua was not a Career any more. He turned away from where the spear lay, and then released Matthew with a shove.

'Get out of here.'

'Wha- what? I don't understand?' Matthew's irritatingly proper accent slipped in his confusion.

Joshua didn't give an answer, partly because he didn't really have one. He walked away from his bamboozled foe, picking up the spear as he went. He was done with killing, and it was a freeing feeling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matthew standing still as a statue where he had left him. Then, suddenly, the boy stooped, picked something up from the floor, and charged him one final time…

Joshua was ready. This time he met Matthew head on. His own hand met that of Matthew's, and he twisted the shorter boy's wrist _hard_. Yelping, Matthew collapsed to his knees, dropping the arrow that had been his final weapon. It had obviously fallen unnoticed from Joshua's quiver in the earlier scuffle.

Matthew continued to yell as Joshua held him in his right hand. The other boy's strength had faded. Despite all the conditioning the rich kid had done to practice, it was no replacement for the instinct and aggression of a Career.

Joshua looked at his left hand. It still held the spear that Matthew had tried to kill him with the second time. All his instinct and common sense told him that killing Matthew now would be justice. He'd been spared twice, and had still attacked.

Maybe some people deserved to die. After all, he was a good person now, and didn't good people kill bad people?

No.

He released Matthew. The boy fell forward into the mud. And for the final time, Joshua turned and walked away from his enemies. Both Matthew and his old self. He'd beaten them both that day.

After a little way, he stopped to throw the spear into a ditch.

* * *

The darkening of the day meant that everyone needed to find shelter. Matthew was hurrying around searching for both his sword and his path home. But for Harriet, things were little better.

After the encounter with Sigrun, she knew she needed to stand up to the next person she met. But she knew that if she did, it might mean her death. She was just too weak. Her stomach painfully stretched against her ribs. Her only hope was that she might be able to finally put her final crossbow bolt into Gwen before she went. Or, just maybe, she could find another ally. And this time, not let them die for her.

But the light had gone from the trees, and there was no-one. The jungle was sparsely populated now. Harriet gave up on finding somebody else. She just needed to find a good place to sleep, and hope she made it to the morning.

There was a noise. Something moving in the darkness. A person? Having nowhere else to go, Harriet headed for the noise.

After a little way, unless her ears were deceiving her, she began to hear the sound of something striking metal. Then a flaming light appeared from behind a tree. Not caring who it was, she stumbled forwards.

The scene that greeted her eyes was a camp fire, with supplies scattered in a disorderly heap around. Huddled next to it, seeking warmth from the far colder nights, was a skinny boy with dark hair, tight head bandages and heavy eyebrows. He was running a small stone down the edge of a heavy single-bladed battleaxe.

Geraint looked around at Harriet's approach, and was instantly on his feet. Harriet, uncertain whether to attack or escape, raised her empty hands and backed away, as if to emphasise her innocence. But Geraint was already stamping on his small fire, and with a last few coughs of smoke it was extinguished.

Harriet was plunged back into darkness and uncertainty. She had no idea where her enemy was, but neither was there any point to fleeing. Geraint was the only other tribute she had found. He was her only hope.

As her eyes accustomed to the gloom, it became clear that Geraint was gone from his camp. It appeared deserted, the rations still in disarray, the log fire heaped with ash. Not having the energy to think of anything else, Harriet edged forward.

She had almost reached the camp when she felt the axe at the back of her neck. Geraint whispered the words.

'No more steps.'

Harriet quivered, with weakness as much as fear, but stayed still. Geraint slowly walked around her, as if ascertaining if she was armed. Her crossbow and its final bolt remained at her belt.

From his demeanour, it was clear he was not used to being in control of a situation like this. He was a good warrior, his high training score showed that, but he was no cold-hearted killer. Harriet took heart in this.

'Leave or I will have to kill you.'

Geraint was still whispering, as if afraid to speak such threats out loud. He certainly didn't seem convinced by his own words. But the presence of the axe kept Harriet nervous. She stepped away from Geraint's camp. Perhaps if she stayed nearby he wouldn't kill her.

Without another word, Geraint watched Harriet move off behind the trees and back into the gloom. She quickly found a crook in a tree where she could settle uncomfortably for the night.

The fire was not relit, but Harriet was close enough to tell Geraint was not moving camp. Tomorrow, she thought as she fingered her crossbow. Tomorrow she would have to get food, somehow. And Geraint was the only one she knew of who had any.

* * *

That night, there were no further faces in the sky. All those who were awake to see it, that is, Geraint, Joshua, and Gwen, were on edge. The final six were outdoing their opponents by some margin.

And for the Gamemakers, the Games had gone on quite long enough. They needed to reach an end, and soon.

* * *

**A/N: Just a question: Do you have a new prediction for who is going to win? There isn't a long time to go, and while these six have stuck around a while now, things are going to speed up very soon...**


	30. And then there were Five

**A/N: Thanks to you lovely chaps for reviewing, it helps shape my ideas and cheers me up no end. This chapter, like most of them, was heavily planned out from the start, but it's the one I was most excited to get to (hence the quicker update speed recently). I think it's worth the wait.**

* * *

**Chapter 29: And then there were Five**

Geraint had not slept.

Harriet could not have gone far. Her intrusion into his refuge the previous evening had been his first encounter for some time, and had caught him off guard. Had the girl attacked quickly enough, she might have got the better of him. But as it was, neither of them had been willing to risk their own life to kill the other.

Geraint's games had taken an upturn after the Feast. There, he had obtained bandages and his axe, which had helped him immensely. He changed the bandages on his head daily, and the healing had cleared his mind no end. Geraint was focused, or as focused as he could be in such a bloodthirsty environment. He had food and water aplenty, and though his health wasn't perfect and he was hating every moment, he was secure. For now.

This was more than could be said for Harriet. From what little Geraint had seen of her it was clear she was on her last legs; painfully thin, with no allies and apparently no supplies. Her arrival complicated things. Geraint's attack on Matthew earlier in the Games remained the only time he'd tried to take on an opponent, and that had been only when he was desperate. His father had taught him how to use an axe in combat as well as for its intended purpose, but he would prefer for it not to come to that. There was perhaps merit in him moving camp, as it seemed unlikely that such an unhealthy tribute would follow. But the competitive spirit in him, something he had attempted to suppress this games, baulked at the idea of fleeing Harriet in her current state.

As the sun went up, Geraint knew that his first kill might also be looming on the horizon. He just hoped Harriet wouldn't force his hand.

* * *

Harriet's eyes flickered open as the light began to intrude into her world. She saw the large, languid leaves of the tree she was perched in hovering over her face. Her eyes closed. She remembered where she was.

She almost wished she hadn't woken up. To go in sleep would have been a peaceful exit. Not a shameful one either. As it was, Harriet had to face the facts. She was starving. There was food around, but she didn't have the energy to hunt and she couldn't trust the fruit that was low enough for her to reach. The only source were the other tributes. And, at the moment, that meant Geraint.

The boy had not moved from where he had been camping the previous day, she quickly noted. She could hear him moving about not far from her. So he was clearly confident; that he could beat her? Or that she wouldn't try and take him on?

Well he was wrong in the latter case. She had not killed anyone yet these Games, and neither had her deceased teammates Bracken and Aurelia. But as much as she wanted to continue their legacy, she couldn't stay passive. Otherwise she would die; and die today.

Harriet looked at her supplies. There was nothing there except her crossbow, and its one surviving bolt. She turned it over in her hands, and thought of the destination she had originally planned for it. The heart of Gwen. Long ago, it seemed, without regard for life and friendship, she had murdered Bracken. The stupid, selfless boy who had been everything to her.

'You were going to avenge him,' whispered Harriet.

Unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes. She didn't know whether she was talking to herself, or to the crossbow. Was there really a difference, at this point? Where was the Harriet that had existed before she had held it?

Harriet's thoughts were askew, but she gathered them back in with the last of her mental strength. She loaded her crossbow. Hopefully, Geraint would be weak. Maybe, armed only with an axe, he would even flee from her ranged weapon. She hoped so.

As she advanced towards her coincidental enemy, Harriet knew her first kill might also be ahead of her. She just hoped Geraint wouldn't force her hand.

* * *

Harriet's awakening had not got past Geraint. He was perched on a log, holding his axe in his right hand. He was waiting for her.

Slowly, the girl moved into sight. The light of the morning cast her condition in a more grisly light. The tight outfit they'd all been issued with sat particularly loosely on her. Harriet had been slim to begin with, but looked like little more than a wisp now. Her legs were spindly and only just managed to propel her forwards into his camp. Her arms quivered badly, and she gripped her crossbow with white hands. It was all she was carrying.

However, it was her face that shocked him. Geraint's first impression of Harriet had been that she was a very pretty girl, with a ready smile and loose, fair hair that reached her shoulders. Now, she was gaunt. She looked older and sadder, with lines creasing her forehead and cheeks slightly sunken. Her hair was frayed and far longer. She was recognisable, yes, but her suffering was etched onto every aspect of her body. Geraint could tell that she had been hurt mentally at least as much as she had physically.

Seeing her, Geraint realised how lucky he was. He was able to stand up with ease from his log, and heave a huge weapon up with one hand. He had lost weight and strength, but he had not suffered like this.

Harriet's reaction to his standing was not what he had been expecting. He had predicted fear, perhaps a hasty retreat in the face of the limited intimidation he was capable of. But Harriet had a determination in her. She stepped forward once more, and raised the crossbow in shaking hands, to point towards him. It was already loaded. Her eyes, unlike her hands, were steady. She was sane. She was no coward.

But Geraint still had a plan. He took his left hand from behind his back, and with deliberate slowness, so as not to alarm her, he threw a piece of meat towards Harriet.

* * *

The meat was a large chunk, more than Harriet had seen in a long time. There was still some fur attached, but at this point she didn't care. It could perhaps keep her going for most of the day. Maybe she would even find water, and last the whole day. She lowered the crossbow carefully and stepped towards it.

After she picked it up, never taking her eyes from Geraint, and, fumbling, shoved it into a bag at her belt, she stepped back into her former position. Suddenly, the boy spoke.

'Go,' his voice was hoarse, as if it hadn't been used for a while. 'It's all I can spare.'

Harriet stayed still. Geraint didn't want to kill her. Maybe he wasn't a murderer? Maybe he was like her, just trying to stay alive?

'I told you yesterday,' he continued shakily. 'Leave or I have to kill you.'

Or maybe he was afraid? She had a crossbow, he only had an axe. He had given her nothing yesterday, but she stayed one day and he fed her. Perhaps Geraint would continue to do so, if she kept the pressure on.

'Please,' Geraint stumbled out the word.

Harriet ignored it. Bracken was relying on her, relying on her to go on. She could beat Geraint, she could beat them all.

Harriet's tears came again unbidden. Her brain forced her tired hands to raise the crossbow again. She pointed it straight at Geraint's eyes, and remembered her training, remembered what Bracken had taught her. She was doing it for him. For them.

'I'm sorry.'

It was Geraint who said it, and Geraint who moved, his other hand now reaching for a throw. But this time it was the axe that spun towards her, and Harriet's hands could not release the trigger in time. Geraint's axe twirled in a simple circle, and then her eyes were filled with the blade.

It felt like all the air had been punched from her feeble body. Without air, there was nothing to keep it together. There was darkness, and then Harriet was on the ground. Her fingers were fumbling on the floor, and her eyes flickered in her unmoving head, looking for the crossbow. Then there was darkness again, and then she saw it. It was out of reach, and she saw that the final bolt had never been fired. It would never reach its target. Bracken would not be avenged.

And then there was darkness, and then there was light.

* * *

Geraint looked down on the body of Harriet as her cannon fired. He didn't know what to think.

He had not wanted to do this. The girl had been weak. She had not, perhaps, been a threat. But when someone was pointing a crossbow at you, there was nothing you could do to keep your fate in your hands. Nothing besides what he had done.

There was no way Harriet would have been able to dodge the axe. She was too weak. He had known, when he had thrown it, that she was going to die. Perhaps he had known before that.

Geraint had not really expected her to take the meat and leave. It was perfectly good food and it would have kept her alive, but she had recognised that it was only going to prolong her suffering. She needed more, and he was not willing to give that. In her situation, Geraint thought, he would have probably done the same.

As he extricated his axe from Harriet's body, he tried to stop himself from looking at her face. But it was impossible. Seeing it did not improve his mood. There were tears, even now running down her cheeks. He found himself weeping too. What a sight, he thought. A boy crying with the girl he had killed.

It was the fault of the Games, he tried to tell himself. Not his own. She would be alive if it wasn't for them. His tears became tears of anger, anger for what he had become, and for what had become of Harriet. And then he had a thought.

He would not allow the Gamemakers to get her body. This one victory, he would have. And she would share in it.

Harriet was getting a proper funeral.

It only took a few minutes and a couple of vines to lash her to two light wooden logs. Her face was not at peace, but he closed her eyes to make it seem so. The lingering tears he wiped from her face. He let his own flow.

Geraint made for a nearby river with the body. Harriet probably hadn't known there was one so close. Then he placed the makeshift raft into the side, and used a stick to prod it along. Quicker than he had expected the body of Harriet was rushed away. He watched as it trundled along, low in the water, before it vanished from his view. There was nothing for Geraint to say.

But if he survived this, he vowed to sing the girl's praises. She deserved better. They all did.

* * *

Geraint returned to his camp to see something shining in the ground. It was the crossbow of Harriet, still loaded. He had missed it while he was sending her body down the river.

It felt wrong to take it. Had he noticed, it would have gone with her. But now he had no real choice. He couldn't just let a weapon go to waste. Right now, all he had was his axe.

So Geraint packed the crossbow, and the single bolt. He doubted if it was what Harriet would have wanted, but he had to think of himself now.

It was time for him to move on. This camp was full of bad memories- and bloodstains. But Geraint was strong in his convictions. The Games were the enemy. Not the tributes.


	31. A Death and an Arrival

**Chapter 30: A Death and an Arrival**

The Head Gamemaker was frustrated. The uninteresting Geraint's disposal of Harriet's body was an nuisance, as it was policy to retrieve the bodies.

However, he had more important concerns at this point. The big shots in the Capitol had given him an ultimatum; the Games had to end, and soon. While they were useful for distracting the populace, they also led to dissent if certain districts had not had any interests in it for a long time. The final six tributes had outlived their rivals by some margin, and it was leading to trouble.

The death of Harriet that morning had, therefore, been gratifying. But the day wound ever on, and the five surviving tributes did not encounter one another. Sigrun was licking her wounds in her fort, while the others, despite moving about, were not doing so more than they needed.

The Head Gamemaker didn't know what to make of this bunch of tributes. Two scrappy District 12 kids, who were far tougher than they looked, a rich but well-drilled boy from District 5, a brawny District 7 girl and a Career. Normally you could at least rely on the Career to compete aggressively, but Joshua had not only thrown aside his weapons, but had even spared Matthew when he had no reason to. Only one Career survived for more than two days and it had to be _this _one, sighed the Head Gamemaker. In contrast, Gwen had spent the whole Games seeking out victims, and winning too.

He zoomed in on her with the cameras. She was currently picking her way through the jungles, looking healthy and determined, two blades at her hips and a sling swinging in her hand. Her training score of 12 was well gifted. He hadn't seen a better fighter than her in all his days in the job.

Perhaps, should she survive- and this was looking very likely- she would come in very useful.

But he had other responsibilities now. Turning his attentions from Gwen's doings, he noticed that two other tributes were approaching one another.

'Take a look,' he notified his hopeless staff. Hurriedly, they sat upright in their chairs, so as to give an impression of hard work. The Head Gamemaker knew that most of them spent their days half-asleep, but he himself couldn't be bothered to reprimand them most of the time. Once they were all in positions of apparent attention, he continued.

'5 and 12 are getting rather close, but they might pass each other. We should encourage them closer. Use fire or something, that usually works.'

As they scrambled into weary action, he sighed. At least now they were _trying_ to end these accursed Games. They could get in severe trouble if they didn't.

* * *

It was the early afternoon by the time the heavens opened. Matthew was caught in it.

The rains soon became a fully-fledged storm. Matthew's hair was plastered flat over his face. It had been uncut for a long time, so it covered his eyes, and even got caught in his mouth. He tore at it with his hands. It was incredible how much such little things could infuriate one when one is in a particularly terrible situation.

And a terrible situation he was in. Since the disastrous encounter with Joshua he had been left beaten and bruised, but still alive, in the middle of the rainforest. In his frantic search for the swamp that had become a safe haven for him, he had found the sword that Joshua had thrown away, but nothing more.

He had lost his control; the control he prided himself on having. He had wandered in circle until he didn't know which way he was facing any more. For someone who prided himself on always being one step ahead of his situation, it was terrifying.

He had slept out in the open that night. Being lost and afraid was exhausting, and he'd slept long and without interruption. But in the light of day the swamp had been no easier to find. And now the rainstorm would not help the situation.

Lightning sparked suddenly, not 20 feet in front of him. A tree, that moments before had stood tall and untroubled, was soon ablaze, and the flames quickly spread to lap at the surrounding greenery. Matthew took a moment to consider his options, but he had no choice but to turn back and head, as fast as he was able, away from the fire.

But as he looked around, he saw that the blaze wasn't alone. All over the rainforest, lightning was slicing down, lighting the tallest trees ablaze. Matthew's panic could not really get any higher. He turned and fled in the only direction he could see no flames. He had no choice.

The rain drenched him from head to toe until he no longer felt its wetness. All there was in his life was the few feet ahead of him. He didn't know what time it was; the sun had been shut out.

Had he not looked up at the right moment, he'd have run straight into Geraint.

Matthew, with his superior memory, instantly recognised the boy, despite the obscuring weather. He was thinner, and wetter, but there was no mistaking one of the few tributes he had actually met in the Games.

Geraint, for his part, looked just as surprised to meet someone else as Matthew felt. He too had been running, and a quick glance Matthew took over the boy's shoulder confirmed that there were fires behind him too. He held a single-bladed heavy axe in his hands. Matthew was quick to draw his sword.

But Geraint backed away, yelling something indistinguishable. Matthew was encouraged. Geraint had chased him in the past, but then he hadn't been ready!

With a guttural war cry that the Matthew of a week ago would never have uttered, he charged.

* * *

Geraint's axe, held in both hands, protected him from the first swing of Matthew's sword. Geraint had expected it, though he wished it hadn't come to this. Not so soon after he had committed murder.

'I don't want to fight you!' he yelled again, but Matthew didn't respond. Perhaps he didn't hear over the downpour- and the crackling flames that surely weren't far away. For some reason the rain was not putting out the fires, and that bothered Geraint.

Of more concern, however, was Matthew's sword. He parried the next blow with his axeblade, before going on the offensive with a swift lunge towards Matthew's feet. His enemy was forced to stumble backwards to avoid the strike, and Geraint took advantage, turning his axe around and thumping Matthew's knuckles with the shaft.

The sword fell from his enemy's hands and Geraint stepped over it. Though he was tired, cold and wet, and though he had no desire to fight in this sham of a competition any more, it still gave him a sense of guilty pride that he could outfight his enemies. His District would be proud of him.

He was now close enough to see Matthew's eyes. They betrayed little, only flicking from side to side, as if searching for an escape. The rain was slowing, but the fires still raged. Neither of them could afford to stick around much longer.

'I don't want to fight.' Geraint repeated himself. Matthew could now surely hear him.

But instead of responding, he sprang, and with an athleticism that Geraint had not been prepared for, got his hands on the axe.

The two boys, both thin, hungry, wet and tired, had a brief but exhausting struggle for the weapon. Geraint was the more well-fed of the two, but Matthew was inherently stronger, and his hands were clamped firmly on the wood. With a final grunt of exertion he wrenched it from Geraint's hands.

Unarmed, Geraint backed away from his foe. Suddenly, glinting on the ground, the steady rainfall tapping along its edge, he saw Matthew's sword. He seized it.

But Matthew was already running. Geraint paused for a moment, before resigning himself to the chase. He didn't want to play this stupid game, but if others were going to attack him, he needed his axe.

* * *

During the fight, Matthew had finally spotted his swamp. As the rainfall lessened, he had seen it in the distance, off to their left and away from the pursuing flames. It would render him safe from both the fire and his enemy. So he had made a run for it.

If there was one thing Matthew had confidence in, it was his running. He was no sprinter, but he could go for hours if he needed to. And though the sufferings of the Games had weakened him, he was sure that he could outdo a poor, untrained sap like Geraint.

It turned out that the distance to the swamp was further than it looked, however. And a glance over his shoulder showed Matthew that Geraint was not giving up the chase. In fact, he might even be gaining.

By the time Matthew reached the edge of the familiar marshlands, the rain had all but ceased. As suddenly as it had begun, the storm had dissipated, and the fires too had been left far behind. But Geraint was still there. He heard the footsteps following him. He dared not turn.

It appeared that Geraint was more steadfast than he appeared. Matthew remembered his assassination of Leonidas. He had told the hefty boy not to underestimate his opponents. Perhaps he ought to have listened to his own advice.

But now, surely, he had the fool beat. He was well-versed in this marsh, he knew the parts that were safe- and the parts that weren't. With his own brand of elegant agility, he hopped from land to land, avoiding the sludgy or watery areas.

But Geraint could not be stopped. The other boy was even gaining on him, with confident strides that outdid the cautious leaps of Matthew. Matthew briefly turned, to see Geraint nearly on him. He carried Matthew's sword. Matthew didn't know how to use the axe he carried, but it was all he had.

And Geraint seemed to really want it.

The beginnings of another fantastic plan came into Matthew's head. If it was the axe he was after, then it was the axe he would get. He changed course, and increased his speed. It was time to go to the deep pool.

This area of the marsh was darker and murkier. There was little sludge or slime, just a murky pond that stretched down god knows how far. Matthew had never dared to fish in it, but he had seen…ripples, that spoke of larger creatures than he wanted to tackle.

But Geraint didn't know that.

* * *

The retreat of Matthew was frustrating for Geraint. For every foot the other boy lost in speed he gained in a greater knowledge of the 'safe areas'. But he couldn't run for ever, and Geraint was confident in his endurance.

Looking up, he realised Matthew had stopped. He had turned towards Geraint, and in his right arm he held the axe out, as if offering it. Geraint stepped closer, but then hesitated. Underneath the dangling weapon was a dark pool of water. It looked extremely deep. Matthew wasn't offering it; he was threatening to throw it away.

'Do you want this, boy?' said Matthew pompously. For the first time in the Games, Geraint felt angrier at a person than the situation. Who did he think he was?

Smugly, Matthew continued. 'If you want it, go and get it!'

With a self-satisfied grin, Matthew let the axe fell. It plopped into the water, and sank like a stone. Geraint lost sight of it immediately.

There was silence. Matthew backed away, as if attempting to put the pool in between himself and Geraint. But he looked rather pleased with himself, despite having cast aside his only weapon.

He had the right to be. Geraint did not dare attempt to cross the water, and if he tried to go round it Matthew would be long gone. As for the axe, that was unsalvageable. There were bubbles in the water. Who knew what lived in those depths? It was a trap, and Geraint wasn't falling for it.

'Well, then?'

Geraint wasn't listening to his opponent's words. He was still looking at the bubbles, which had begun to move.

'Aren't you going to do anything?'

There were more now. Bubbles and ripples. The water was heavily disturbed, and it was moving away from Geraint. Towards Matthew.

'Run!'

'Is that meant to be some sort of threat?' scoffed Matthew. 'I don't think you understand. You've been beat-'

The words choked in his throat as he finally saw it. But it was already too late to run. Launching from the water like a cannonball came a brown crocodile-like creature, about the length of Matthew himself. It latched onto his empty hand, and held there, its tail dragging in the water, but its malevolent eyes firmly set upon its target.

There came another, and another. One on each arm, and then they went for his legs. There were five or six of the reptiles now, clinging to Matthew's flesh. Matthew screamed for five more seconds, and then, as if it had been pre-agreed, the beasts pulled backwards, and the whole horde fell back into the depths, taking Matthew with them.

The dark blue of the water turned dark red. It was nearly a minute before the cannon fired.

Geraint was left alone, clutching the sword that had belonged to the dead. An onlooker would have thought that it burned him, by the speed at which he cast it aside. It bounced once, before disappearing into the murky pool with its master.

There was nothing to say. There was nothing, really to think. The horror of this competition was revealed, if it had not been clear before. And though he was alive and breathing, Geraint knew that these Games were the death of him. It was the final straw.

Looking up at the heavens, and knowing as he did that those he hated would see, he gave out a great cry, of pain, but also of rage. He didn't deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

* * *

'Well, they can't say that isn't satisfactory,' said the Head Gamemaker.

His staff looked at him wearily, but he continued unfazed.

'We encouraged them together with the fire, and then bam! One more down. Instant results. Looks like we're keeping our jobs after all.'

'But the ninth day is nearly over. And they told you to finish it, didn't they?' ventured a brave subordinate.

The Head Gamemaker ignored him. 'I knew putting those caimans in the swamp would get us results. Absolute perfect moment to spring them too. Lad didn't know what hit him.'

'But sir,' persisted the suicidal man. 'Don't you think we should be dealing with the last four while we can? They did say-'

SLAM.

The doors to the Gamemakers' room burst inwards. The tramping of feet heralded the arrival of a dozen men. They were unarmed, but didn't need to be. Each one was built like a brick wall.

'What's going on?' asked the Head Gamemaker. He meant to say it with authority, but it came out very small. He knew what was coming.

'A simple transfer of control.'

The clipped voice came from behind the guards, and they parted to reveal a smaller man. He had grey, finely combed hair and square, sensible glasses. The Head Gamemaker recognised him at once. Mark Crassus. The wealthiest man in Panem. He held no official role in the government, and didn't even live in the Capitol. But everyone knew that he pulled many of the strings at the heart of the nation.

He was a man who one couldn't afford to cross.

'Mr Crassus. It is an honour to…' The Head Gamemaker's voice trailed off as he realised why the man was probably there. 'Your son…we couldn't save him. We can't…we can't…'

'Quite,' replied Crassus. 'I expected no favouritism. The failure of my son to win something he was trained for is entirely his own doing.

'I am here for another purpose.'

The Head Gamemaker tried to meet his cold glare, but dropped his head. He could feel the panic of his staff. For once, he knew exactly how they felt.

'You were given a task. This task was not completed to our satisfaction. You will leave. My men and I will take over management of the Games from here.'

'I will need proof that…that the Capitol sent you,' the Head Gamemaker stuttered out.

'They did. You will now leave,' Crassus replied curtly.

At this, the guards marched forward into the room, and took over the work stations of the Gamemakers. As his beleaguered staff trailed out, the Head Gamemaker realised that he had no choice. The authority of Crassus could not be easily matched.

* * *

After he had left, Mark Crassus turned to his men.

'Now. Considering the official staff were not capable, I am handing this over to you. Do not disappoint me. Tomorrow, three more tributes will die.

'Tomorrow, the Games end.'

* * *

**A/N: Wow, this chapter was long. Matthew was another one who initially died very undramatically, but this changed as the story was written. If the ending confused you, that's OK. You'll see more of Mark Crassus in the future (the sequel is pretty well planned out).**

**Also, the next chapter will probably be the final one- at least of the Games themselves, there will almost certainly be an epilogue of sorts. It will be a very long chapter, so don't expect it too soon. Unless I split it into two halves. Either way- stuff is gonna _happen_.**


	32. The Tenth and Final Day

**A/N: Sorry for the length, this would normally be two chapters but I wanted to do all this in one go. This is it. The end of the Games. Only an Epilogue (i hate that word, I'll probably call it something different) to follow. I can't tell you when that'll be up, but I need to sort out a few sequel-related things before I write it. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

**Chapter 31: The Tenth and Final Day**

The sun of the tenth day of the Games dawned on only four tributes. All of them were painfully aware that there were still three others between them and victory- or safety. What none of them knew was that the tenth day was to be the last.

Mark Crassus knew. He had taken over the stations of the Gamemakers. There was so much power in their positions, but it was power they had wasted. Lazily, they had allowed the tributes to dictate the outcome of the Games themselves.

This would end. Control was Crassus' now. The crack of dawn found him flicking through replays of the deaths of tributes, searching for inspiration. It was frustrating to see how little the former Gamemakers had intervened in the competition. As far as arena events and the like had gone- nothing. Just a Feast, but that was pretty much standard procedure anyway. No wonder the populace were growing tired of the Games. They were terribly run.

'Sir?' It was one of Crassus' new 'Gamemakers', a six foot brick of a man. But these men were the best he could recruit. They had spent the night getting to grips with controlling the arena. 'What do we do?'

'This one,' Crassus switched the view onto the death of Sidney. A flock of blue-grey birds had mobbed the boy, tearing him into pieces. 'Are those birds ours?'

The man wrinkled his nose in disgust, but nodded.

'Then the solution is simple. Turn that flock into a horde. Weed them out into the open. The tributes themselves will do the rest of the work.'

'As you say.'

As the man turned away to go about his work, Crassus switched back to watching the deaths. Specifically, the most recent one. His face was expressionless. As if he had fixed it that way.

* * *

It was Gwen who first saw them. A small collection of tiny creatures, flitting from branch to branch like sparrows. But as she advanced closer, her hand tentatively on her sword, she saw they were something very different. Their beady eyes shone like green jewels, their blue-grey feathers did not stir in the wind.

Gwen did not trust them. With a yell she charged the beasts, her sword lashing the branches they were perched on. But with a _whirr _they were already gone.

Geraint, sitting alone in the deepest part of the jungle, felt a weight on his shoulder, and, as he started in alarm, was surprised to see such a small animal flutter away. The bird had felt a lot heavier than it looked.

Joshua saw them too. He half heartedly strung his bow, knowing he needed to eat, but before he could fire they had whirred away. He frowned. Joshua wasn't an ornithologist (he didn't even know the word) but he knew that birds didn't generally make that noise.

Sigrun was far above the rest of the tributes. Her fort, perched on the edge of the cliff, was isolated and safe. But she saw a bird as well.

It announced itself with a _whirr_. To Sigrun, the sound was that of cogs, or a soft version of a drill. But turning, all she saw was a tiny bird.

Unlike the other tributes, Sigrun had a very good understanding of animals. She staggered to her feet, still feeling the pain in her side from the wound Gwen had inflicted. As she stalked towards the creature, she snatched up her axe, the weapon that had never let her down. A bird that made a noise like that was not what it seemed.

Surprisingly, the animal let Sigrun approach. She could immediately tell that it was not a significant threat. Its beak was sharp, but it was small. However, its eyes unnerved Sigrun. They had a light in them that was not natural.

The bird cocked its head at her. The eyes stared through her, as if they were analysing her. She wondered if it was some sort of monitoring device. Was there a camera in there, perhaps?

Well, if there was, Sigrun thought, she had no desire to be monitored. She swung at it with the axe.

She only cleaved thin air. Looking around angrily, Sigrun saw it hovering above her. With one final _whirr _it raced off into the distance, towards today's storm cloud. The weather was already brewing. Although the fort protected her from the elements, perhaps it would be wise to forget the bird and prepare herself for it.

She didn't get the opportunity. Another _whirr_ sounded from behind her, and she turned to see another one, perched atop her wooden palisade. Another joined it, and another, until there were a flock of the little things, whirring like anything. Making a mockery of her fortifications by standing on top of them.

Sigrun's frustration at the animals reached its climax. Dropping her axe, she slammed her whole body into the wooden stakes, startling the animals. They rose as one into the air, batting their little wings like hummingbirds. But these were not natural creatures. As she watched, they too scattered away towards the raincloud.

Except it wasn't a raincloud.

It was composed of birds. All across the forest, birds were breaking free of the canopy, joining the host. It was as if they had received some sort of hidden summons, to all come together in one place. More and more were coming, and the flock was swelling, clamouring, _whirring_.

And like a real cloud, it was about to break.

As Sigrun watched, the horde rose as one, high into the air. Like an immense swarm of bees, it gathered itself, before wheeling in a vast, noisy arc and swirling off. Towards the Fort.

Sigrun threw herself onto the ground as the flock whisked over her. She couldn't even hear her own heavy breaths over their din. She felt their wings, batting her on the back, surprisingly sharp. But then they were past, but Sigrun knew it wasn't over, and she seized her axe as she rose.

The birds were out of sight, but she could still hear them. Her fortifications were between her and them now, though. Perhaps they had gone?

But to her dismay, the whirring grew louder. They were wheeling around. They were coming back for her.

They hit her outer wall first. Not even Gwen had burst through it with such devastating power. Wooden stakes and broken bodies of birds were hurled over and through her inner palisade. One of the birds hit Sigrun in the chest. It was in several bits, but its open mouth continued to _whirr_.

As the flock hit her inner palisade, Sigrun set herself. Her stance was wide; her axe was plunged deep into the earth. The wind whirled through her dark hair. She would withstand this. The Games would not end here.

The rock that held her gate shut was hurled back. It bounced once, not two feet from Sigrun's position, before falling from the cliff edge behind her. Sigrun turned to face the swarm. The stakes in this wall were well and deeply set, and the beaks of the birds were not enough to pierce them. But the sheer weight of the animals did the job. One by one, the stakes of the palisade were uprooted. The Fort was disintegrating.

But Sigrun still stood. Her feet did not move; her axe was strong. Many beaks tore her clothes and skin, but she stood firm. A heavy log struck her on the brow; she shrugged it off. The bandage was ripped from her side by the sheer force of the swarm. Sigrun's eyes were forced shut, she could no longer see, nor hear anything save the incessant whirring in her bleeding ears. She found herself down on one knee. The hand holding the axe was in pain from the strength of her grip, but she refused to let go. And though Sigrun's pain was tremendous, and though the birds were striking her and dying in their thousands, she refused to be thrown from the cliff. Her feet would not move, and though every part of her body was pierced and bleeding, nothing would force them to.

All things pass. And so did the swarm.

The Fort was gone. To an observer, it would have been as if it had never existed. The great logs, buried deep in the soil, had been uprooted and tossed aside, as if they were never there to start with. The supplies of Sigrun were lost in the swarm.

Sigrun alone remained. The axe was held firmly, and she was not on the ground, but down on one knee. It would appear that she had ridden the storm.

But she was dead. The birds had torn her body to shreds. Only sheer force of will had left her anchored to the cliff-top, when everything else had been flung aside. Bleeding from every part of her body, Sigrun finally fell forward.

Her hand still gripped the axe. Even in death, Sigrun was unmoveable.

* * *

The other three tributes heard her cannon, but they didn't care. The swarm was going after them as well. Geraint was still overwhelmed with pain, after what had happened to Harriet and Matthew, but he still had the strength to run. He dropped everything except Matthew's sword and Harriet's crossbow bolt, which he kept rammed in his belt. He needed to keep them. He needed to remember them.

Tears were in his eyes once more, as the birds flurried and buffeted past him. They were not as deadly amongst the trees, but he knew he needed to get to safety. The infernal _whiirrrrr_ in his ears was more than he could bear. He just wanted the games to end, one way or another,

For Joshua, escape was harder. He had been out in the open when they had swarmed, and he had only just made it to the thickest trees before they had struck him. Stumbling through the vegetation, Joshua cursed as he cut his leg on a thorny branch. He was usually more careful, but he had to hurry.

Birds were still breaking through the foliage to get at him, and he found himself having to swat the infernal things away. Joshua's career training came in useful here- he had been taught to have no value for any life, human or otherwise. But he was pretty much certain that these were neither.

Limping with difficulty over uneven ground, avoiding thorny bushes and keeping an eye out for the whirring that signalled the presence of the birds, Joshua suddenly saw an area of safety. A large rocky overhang, covering a dark rocky cave. The birds wouldn't enter there, right? And it looked like there were no tributes either. Joshua didn't want to have to fight someone again. In such a stressful situation, his training might…take over. He didn't want to be a killer again.

So he hurried for the cave. A bird buzzed over him, before stopping with a _twang_ in the rock, its beak sticking fast. Joshua shivered. These things were not normal.

Looking up, he saw the flock gather again. It was far above the canopy though, and with a final rush and a duck he made it into the cave. The terrifying noise they made was muffled in here. Joshua breathed. The cave was no very dark, but the overhang made it seem unlikely that the birds would make it in. They hadn't seen him, at the very least.

A clattering noise behind him made him turn, pulling out his bow and adding an arrow in the process. It was Geraint.

The other boy had found the cave, like him. But he looked in a terrible condition. Geraint had always been thin, but now he was gaunt, and suffering was etched in every feature. Joshua wondered if he looked the same to Geraint, as Geraint looked to him.

Joshua did not lower the bow. He wasn't going to shoot Geraint. He couldn't, not now. But he had to protect himself.

Geraint himself did not look like a threat. In fact, he appeared resigned to his fate. Drawing the curved sword from his belt, he threw it aside, and spread his arms wide. As if he was inviting Joshua to shoot.

_Well_, said a voice inside him, _perhaps you should_.

There were only two people between Joshua and freedom. He'd never have to worry about death, about pain, about betrayal. All he needed to do was finish off the two remaining tributes, and he'd be safe.

If Joshua killed now, he'd never have to again.

'Come on then!' yelled Geraint.

But, Joshua thought, no, he had told himself he'd never do it.

'What's your problem?'

He'd done enough killing, he couldn't start again now. He'd come too far to slip into old ways. He wasn't a career. Not any more. He was him, himself, alone.

Forcing the little voice aside, the voice of his past, Joshua lowered the bow.

'What are you doing?' asked Geraint. 'Why don't you just do it? End it, finish it, and KILL ME!'

The whirring of the birds outside had ceased. Perhaps they had gone. Silence reigned in the world of Joshua and Geraint. Nobody was watching, nobody was there to stop him finishing off this powerless enemy. But Joshua wouldn't. He had promised himself.

'You don't know what I've seen.' Geraint continued, tears in his eyes. 'Matthew died because of me; I stole his sword.' He indicated the weapon he'd tossed aside. 'I murdered Harriet in cold blood; I stole her weapon.' He gripped the crossbow bolt at his belt. 'I deserve to die. I want to die. Why don't you do it?'

Joshua had killed too. But he didn't deserve death. He was going to be better. He was going to be a hero. Geraint didn't deserve to die either. But Joshua couldn't get the words out to tell him. To tell him that we could all redeem ourselves.

'Just end it.' Geraint was begging now, as Joshua stayed silent. 'Get it over, get it finished, get it-'

A slingstone smashed into the back of Geraint's head. He went down in a cloud of blood, dead before he'd known what had happened. A small metal object fell from his body and rolled over to Joshua's feet. But he ignored it. His eyes were on the newcomer to the cave.

Gwen dropped the sling, and drew a sword from her side. Casually, confidently, she ducked under the last part of the overhang, and strolled forward, past the body of her District partner. Her eyes locked with Joshua. As the sound of the latest cannon rang around the two of them, they both knew the deadly truth. They were the last ones left.

Joshua had not seen Gwen since the Games had begun, but he had seen all he needed to see when she had killed Geraint. She was not just a survivor, she was a killer.

He was struck though, by how _normal _Gwen looked. She was not the sort of statuesque stunner that tended to be so successful in the Games; she was just a short, scruffy sort of girl- and she was very much a girl, not a woman, not one of the older tributes. Her dark hair was tied back in a simple ponytail; her dirty face grimaced in a boyish way. But here she was, at the end of the Games, alongside the last of the Careers.

Joshua realised his bow was pointing at her. It had been drawn again on instinct, but it may well have been the only thing stopping Gwen from attacking him. She twirled her sword idly, and her eyes searched him for openings, but she didn't dare charge at him. She wasn't to know that he wouldn't kill her.

Or would he? Because the voice was back, and it was telling him that there was nothing standing between him and victory, nothing except this small, forgettable person in front of him now. Joshua would be the toast of his District; he would have achieved all he needed in life. He could spent the next sixty years in peace and joy.

'You gonna shoot me?' asked Gwen in a low voice. Joshua was brought back to earth. 'There's nothing stopping you.'

'I-'

Gwen did not give him a chance to respond. Her sword was hurled overarm, and contrary to everything Joshua's trainers had told him about throwing a sword, it flew true. He had to duck to stop it cutting his throat, but it sliced through his bowstring and sent his only remaining weapon tumbling to the ground, useless.

Joshua turned away from his shattered bow to find Gwen drawing a second blade.

'I'm sorry,' Gwen said as she advanced on him. Her voice was quiet and husky, as if it was rarely used, but each word echoed in the emptiness of the arena. 'I'm truly sorry. When this is over I will return home and atone for everything I've done.'

Joshua could only back away. He didn't know why Gwen was talking to him. Perhaps because he was the last person left for her to talk to. She certainly hadn't given Geraint the same luxury.

'I would rather have stayed at home with my family. Our life was hard but we were safe, safe and happy. Without me they are crushed. They matter' -and here Gwen's face showed real emotion, for the first time, real drive- 'more than you can imagine.'

Oh, I think I can, thought Joshua, as he remembered his mother, the source of all that was good about him, and his friends, misguided but full of warmth. He hoped they'd remember him well.

'I'll never kill anyone, not again, not after all this rubbish is over,' said Gwen, as the two of them continued to circle. 'I was good at it, though I- I never wanted to be.'

Joshua wanted to keep her talking, but he couldn't find words to say. All he knew was that he didn't want to murder Gwen, but he did want to survive. And the Career inside him was straining at the leash, desperately trying to escape. But the new Joshua forced it back. He couldn't abandon his morality, even in great need.

'I wish I could make this easier,' Gwen was gripping her sword with two hands now, 'but I can't…it's simpler to just…'

She charged.

The lunge of her sword swung at Joshua's head. He ducked quickly enough, before reaching up and grabbing her hands with his own. But Gwen was strong, so much stronger than she looked, and she wrenched her hands back from his, and then kicked him fast in the groin.

Joshua saw stars, and stumbled backwards. His new morality was struggling hard with his survivor's instinct and his Career training.

It lost. Joshua sprang back at Gwen, but he was unarmed and she was ready for him. She stepped smartly backwards, and he found himself stumbling again, having leapt at thin air. Her sword swung down at him in an attempt to finish him off, but he leaned away and it smashed down onto the rocks, sending up sparks. Gasping, Joshua backed away from his foe. Gwen fought silently but efficiently, and she clearly had a skill in putting a person on the back foot.

She was quick to charge again, and this time she stabbed, rather than slashed. Joshua had not expected it and nearly dodged right into the tip of Gwen's sword. Fortunately, her momentum took her forward, and she stumbled. Briefly, her back was to Joshua.

The Career in Joshua resurfaced and he sprang for her unprotected back. But Gwen turned faster than he could have predicted, and with it came her sword. Again, he had to use his hands, and though his right was gashed by the blade his left caught her hands and was able to divert it from his body, where it was aimed. Using all his strength, Joshua held her hands down, gritting his teeth in exertion.

But Gwen was not to be outmuscled. With a grunt of her own she smashed her head into his. It was an unpredictable move, and sent Joshua wheeling backwards. As he went, he tripped on the rocks.

Joshua went down, and as he did he felt his ankle snap. Pain coursed through him. He was not getting up again. But Career Joshua was in full control of his body now, and Career Joshua never stopped finding ways to kill people. He fumbled furiously around him. Geraint had dropped a sword, hadn't he? He could see Geraint's body lying near him, out of the corner of his eye. The sword couldn't be far.

As he fumbled, Gwen's face swam into view. It was full of pain, just as Geraint's had been, but any fellow-feeling with the girl was quickly swept away by the rage of Career Joshua. Surely the sword must be somewhere in reach?

Wordlessly, Gwen pulled her arm back to stab him. But Joshua's hand found something metal, and, pushing back the morals that had led him to previously unthinkable levels of decency, he thrust it upwards.

Gwen screamed, and as the sword fell from her hand into Joshua, he screamed as well. He let go of Harriet's crossbow bolt, which now protruded from Gwen's chest, and struggled to pull the blade from his own body. But it stuck, and as the strength sapped from his limbs, Joshua fell back. Career Joshua fled, his work done, leaving only New Joshua to feel the pain.

A thump to his left made him turn his head. Gwen had fallen, and had stopped screaming. Her breath came in snatches, and tears were in her eyes. The crossbow bolt that had once been cherished by Harriet remained stuck in her. Tears swam into Joshua's eyes as well. Side by side, the two final tributes of the Games could do no more harm to each other.

Joshua closed his eyes, wishing it all to end, but it refused to. The pain, both of body and mind, persisted. When his eyes re-opened he saw that Gwen's were closed. She wasn't moving, and a few seconds later a cannon fired.

He had won the Games, perhaps, but he hadn't beaten the worst enemy of all. Himself. And with that terrible final thought, Joshua passed gratefully into unconsciousness.


	33. The Survivors

**A/N: This is the final chapter. The delay has been great because of Real Life, as well as needing to organise some aspects of the follow up story. It will become clear in this chapter, I think, that a follow up is necessary. And the follow up will have an actual story and actual main characters, so that's something to look forward to. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

Chapter 32: The Survivors

Joshua opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was that he was inside. This was a shock. He'd been in the open air for the last ten days. The second thing he drowsily realised was that he was alive, and nobody was trying to kill him; at least presently. This was new, too.

Heaving himself up onto his elbows, he realised he was in a simple bed, in a simple room. There was a lot of white and silver around him, not the green and brown he was used to. The air was clean and crisp, and smelled of cleanliness. It unnerved him.

'He's awaaaaake!' trilled a reedy female voice. A woman bustled into the room. A nurse? Joshua didn't recognise her.

His assumption was proved as he fussed around his body, tutting and reprimanding him for his cuts and bruises. It was odd, he thought, that the same people who'd watched him struggle to survive, perhaps cheered on the other tributes in their attempts to kill him, now prioritised his well-being. He tuned her voice out. He had spent the last week and a half alone with his thoughts, and it was a habit that was difficult to break.

The pains in his body could all be traced back to incidents. His broken ankle; from a trip when he'd fought Gwen. A cut on his right hand; from her sword. The rest of his bumps and bruises he vaguely identified with his occasional trips and branch scratches. None of them were all that bad, to be honest. He'd seen winners in the past with missing limbs. In many ways he was one of the lucky ones.

The woman bustled out, leaving him alone again. He wondered what would happen now. As the winner, he knew that he and his family should be provided for for the rest of his life. But he didn't have a family. He hadn't seen his mother since he was a child. He didn't know what she was like any more. He could barely remember her face.

And yet, it had been for her that he had changed. He had spared lives; he had become part of the team. He had shown that he could be a better person; or, he supposed, a person at all. The name Joshua had meant something. He had been more than just a Career.

But he had failed.

His mind still churning, he barely noticed more people, official-looking men and women who ushered him to his feet. Joshua stood with ease, and water was pushed down his throat. It would have been a good feeling had he not been sick with self-hatred.

Chattering around him, the team of people dragged him in front of a mirror, cleaning his limbs and flattening his hair. Staring back at him was the same boy who had swaggered confidently forward during the reaping. Joshua screwed his eyes closed. The person in the mirror was the last boy he wanted to see.

'I knew it!' came a voice. Joshua turned to see his mentor, Albain, a grizzled, broad shouldered former winner, enter the room. He was beaming.

'Knew you could do it! I told meself, I said, I said that if anyone was going to walk out safe from this lot it was gonna be you!' Albain threw his arm around Joshua's shoulders. Joshua didn't know what to say. Albain was happy for him, and Joshua knew he was supposed to be happy too. He remembered the last couple of Careers he watched win. When they'd come out in front of the cheering crowds, they'd been over the moon.

Which reminded him…

'You've got to be preee-sented soon! Hope you're feeling pretty!' Albain leered at him, and Joshua managed a small smile somehow. He could hear the distant noise of the crowds becoming louder, as Albain steered him firmly towards them. They would all want to see Joshua. Everyone loved it when District 2 won.

Now he was close enough to hear an individual voice amongst the tumult. A Capital guy, the one who would interview him. He couldn't remember the guy's name from his first interview before the Games. It had been so long ago.

'And now,' announced the man. 'Your victor: Joshua Balthaeus!'

But as he was dropped by Albain and the others and left to stagger out alone, in front of the gleeful populace who knew nothing of what he had experienced, he didn't feel like a victor. He had failed when he had stabbed Gwen. He had achieved nothing. And despite the horde of people surrounding him, more than he had even seen for weeks, he had never felt more alone.

There was still a long, hard road ahead of him, but Joshua knew he deserved to suffer every painful step. The Games had made losers of them all.

* * *

In the midst of the chaos that always followed the end of the Games, it had been easy for Mark Crassus to slip away. The Gamemakers had returned to their posts and would receive an inappropriate amount of credit for bringing the Games to a swift and dramatic conclusion.

By the time that Joshua was presented to the crowds in the Capital, Crassus was already back in his office. Although he lived in a large home in District Five, he worked right at the heart of the Capital; although what his actual job consisted of was clear to nobody. Although everybody knew he was more than a simple clerk, which the name on his office asserted was his role.

The distant sounds of the presentations and celebrations did not concern him. He carefully continued to sift through papers, making a quick note here and there. He did not look up from his task until a secretary entered the room a few minutes later.

'Ah,' said Crassus, not waiting for her to speak. 'Send them in.'

Four men were ushered into the room. One was small, red-haired and hooded, the second young but enormously muscular, and a third neat, dark-haired and unreadable. But it was the tallest man that Crassus addressed.

'Congratulations, Church.' He gave a small smile, the most emotion Crassus ever showed. 'An extremely organised job. Your work in the Games went completely unnoticed, as always.'

'Thank you, sir,' Church replied. For a man approaching seven feet in height, he looked surprisingly nervous. Crassus also noticed that his blond hair was turning to grey at the edges, which certainly hadn't been the case when he'd sent the men into the Games a couple of weeks ago.

'I wish to particularly commend you,' Crassus continued, 'on the manner on which you dealt with the incident on the sixth day.'

'You mean Martha, sir?' suggested Church.

'The District Six female, yes. Quickly and efficiently removed, exactly what I expect from the four of you. Painlessly too, I expect?'

There was a pause, during which the red-haired man stared pointedly at his leader. But Church answered with confidence.

'As much as possible, sir. I made sure of it.'

'Good,' said Crassus. 'I will arrange for payment to find its way to all four of you. But I am afraid I will require your services for a little bit longer.'

'What, why?' interjected the red-haired man. Church turned sharply to him, but Crassus raised a hand to signal that the outburst had caused no offence.

'Your point is well made, Harriotts. You will be paid just as handsomely as for your previous duties. It is a simple protective role. The victory tour will be commencing during the next month or so.'

'No it won't,' Harriotts interrupted again, drawing a frustrated look from his leader. 'It happens halfway between Games.'

'Not this year. The earlier it is held, the easier it makes it to quell the disturbances in some of the Districts. Plans are already being made to hold a new Games earlier than usual, as well. The disorder is on unprecedented levels.

'That is why your presence is required, as well. You will accompany the victor around the country. He will not know of your presence; neither will any of his retinue, you will travel as separately as possible. Your existence must remain a secret known only by a select few. But you must always be aware of his position, and you must ensure that none of his audience…reacts strongly.'

It was not a request. Church held out his hand to silence any further outbursts from Harriotts or the two previously silent men, and nodded.

'Very well, then,' said Crassus. 'It is decided.'

He looked back down at his notes, his brain already having consigned the conversation to history. Harriotts and the two silent men began to tramp out, but Church cleared his throat one more time.

'Ahem…sir?'

'What is it?' asked Crassus, in a voice that told Church that he considered their meeting over.

'Your son…I'm sorry we couldn't…'

'That was not your task. Matthew's failure was nobody's doing but his own. He acted like a child, not a man. Had you done anything to save his life, you would have been bypassing your instructions and would not have received any payment.

'Now, do not let me keep you. I am sure you desire to take part in the festivities.'

Church paused, but the dismissal was clear. He followed his comrades out of the office.

Crassus was already back to making notes.

* * *

As soon as they were out of sight of Crassus' office, Harriotts rounded on Church.

'What was the point of that? We'd made it out of the interview alive, and then you bring that up! Do you want to get us all killed?'

'Don't be ridiculous. Crassus is a man, not a dictator. I have worked with him for a lot longer than you, in case you've forgotten, and he has no intention of killing us.'

'But why even bother asking him that?'

'I don't know,' said Church. To find out whether Crassus had those family feelings, perhaps. To try and understand the man he'd worked with for so long, but had never had a personal conversation with.

'It is more important,' the calm voice of Dervite cut in, 'that he is not aware of the survival of Miss Martha.'

'Indeed,' said Church, ignoring Harriotts snort of derision. He still didn't approve of them saving her life. 'I will visit her after the celebrations today. We will need to make sure she is safe and provided for.'

The uncertainty and disapproval of Harriotts, Gower and Dervite were evident, but Church paid them no heed. As the four of them approached the doors to the office building where Crassus worked, the sounds of fireworks reached their ears. The people were chanting the name of Joshua, the sole survivor of the Hunger Games.

Nobody must find out that two had survived.

**THE END**

* * *

**Any and all comments are appreciated. If you followed any part of this attempt at writing, thank you. The first chapter of the sequel is now up, it's under the title 'the Assassins of the Capitol'. I suck at titles. **


End file.
